


Rich Is the Swamp in Its Scum

by Honeybee_Bub



Series: Red Dead Reconstruction [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 19th Century, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Arthur Morgan, BAMF Hosea Matthews, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual Dutch van der Linde, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Concussions, Cowboys, Depression, Diary/Journal, Disordered Eating, Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Addiction, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eugene?, F/M, Flashbacks, Gay Charles Smith, Gay Hosea Matthews, Gen, Good Parent Hosea Matthews, Head Injury, Healing, Hiding Medical Issues, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, It's more focused on recovery, It's the mental illness innit, Jennifer?, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Protective Hosea Matthews, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, SO SORRY, Self-Harm, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, This isn't relationship centric, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Victim Blaming, What the fuck else are you supposed to name a horse?, Yes his horse is named Baby Bubba here, because rockstar didn't wanna deal with it, no i dont think so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeybee_Bub/pseuds/Honeybee_Bub
Summary: The Nightfolk inhabiting Bayou Nwa are more of a threat than anyone in Lemoyne believes.Arthur is invited into a cabin . . . He comes out a different man.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Kieran Duffy/Mary-Beth Gaskill, Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde
Series: Red Dead Reconstruction [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139843
Comments: 48
Kudos: 67





	1. Nightmare at Sundown

**Author's Note:**

> First off, the title of this story is inspired by Emily Dickinson's poem: "Sweet Is The Swamp With Its Secrets." Second, this story is something that has been playing through my head after I had an unfortunate run-in while playing Red Dead Redemption. I love that game dearly, but I feel like they brushed over Arthur's trauma there and I wanted to expand on that narrative a bit. Rockstar truly could have done better with that, and _this_ scene is one of the main reasons the game received so much mixed feedback — it was a controversial (if you can call it that) move that was executed poorly. 
> 
> Obviously, this is a very triggering topic. The first chapter is definitely graphic, and continuing chapters will have their potentially triggering conversations as Arthur is navigating his way through the horrible thing he went through. So, please take care in reading this and proceed with caution. I write and read to cope, but it isn't the healthiest outlet for everyone. Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One untimely run in after another, Arthur is attacked. A shortcut turns into a genuine nightmare. It will be the last time he ever willingly ventures out into the swamps of Lemoyne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split into two sections; I and II. Heed the warnings (in tags and notes).
> 
> Warnings for **general violence** in both sections, mild description of **hanging** in section I, descriptions of **head trauma** starting at the end of section I and continuing throughout section II, quick mention of **suicidal ideation** , and not _super_ graphic (but surely triggering) descriptions of **rape/assault/general non-con elements**.
> 
> Proceed with caution, please. This is a very heavy story.
> 
> EDIT: I decided to go throughout the chapters and update the notes (regarding trigger warnings/content warnings) to be more specific and easy to see, i.e. bold them. Hope that helps!

“God-” Arthur huffed, blood seeped from the bodies around him and speckled his knuckles, “-dammit!” 

Arthur looked at the three bodies at his feet: thin, bloodied _before_ Arthur had a swing at them, and covered in white paint. 

“God dammit,” He whispered to himself, still trying to catch his breath. 

He took a shortcut through the swamps to avoid an encounter with the Lemoyne Raiders, but the swamp seemed to have its own freaks of nature. Though, they were nothing like the racist, gun toting nuts that roamed through the remains of old plantations. The folks that lay dead at his feet came out of nowhere. Not a shout, threat, or shot to alert passerbys of their arrival. 

_Why didn’t they holler or nothin’?_

Arthur had jumped back in surprise when a breeze from a swishing knife brushed over his neck. He spun around to face — not one — but _three_ men corralling him. They were dead silent. 

He looked around the dark corners of the swamp, squinting to determine his surroundings and any additional threats. He had already been caught off guard once, and he feared it would happen again. 

He wondered what was more dangerous: the gators or the folk that lived there. All Arthur knew was that he wanted to get back to camp and fast. 

“Hey, Bubba,” Arthur patted his horse’s side, “we’re alright.” 

Arthur could sense his Tennessee Walker’s skittish nature coming through, and he tried calming himself to avoid setting off Baby Bubba. 

Arthur wasn’t spooked by much — even as a young boy — but these men scared the hell out of him. Even when he was sure he broke one man’s jaw, he didn’t grunt out in pain or flinch back, he halted a moment before continuing to chase him down in silence. 

He hopped up on Baby Bubba and tugged at the leather reins, prompting him to trot away from the mess Arthur walked into. Arthur was reluctant to pull out his lantern to observe where he had run to, worried it would alert other folks that snuck around in the silence of the swamps. He was set on keeping the lantern void of gas . . . until he got a solid kick to the face only after moving a few feet further on horseback. It wasn’t a branch — he _knew_ it wasn’t. 

Arthur held his breath, rested his hand on his Cattleman Revolver, and lit his lantern. 

To his surprise, no counter attack came. But the dim glow of the lantern reflected off the object blocking his path: the front of a metal-tipped shoe — hanging at eye level. Arthur craned his neck, observing the the tree above up and surrounding him. Body after body — strung up on branches. 

"Son of a bitch." 

_A damned lynching party_. 

Arthur scratched his beard, starting to wonder if he should turn around.

He went through the swamps to avoid fighting. That was the sole reason he took the shortcut: Arthur was beat, and he wanted to make it back to camp without running into any more senseless trouble. He seemed to be getting his fair share of it anyways. 

Arthur turned down his lantern until he was consumed in darkness again. Arthur waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness so he could have a better chance at spotting alligators. He used that time to think over his next move. 

_Nah_ , he thought, _no use back trackin' after getting this damn far_. 

Arthur slid off his horse’s saddle, and settled on leading Baby Bubba through the swamp on foot. He wanted to avoid touching as many corpses as he could. He’d already seen plenty less than a mile into the swamp. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what the folks in the swamps were like, but they weren’t making a very good first impression. 

“C’mon, boy,” He urged. 

While walking, Arthur made a conscious effort to avoid any structures, warmly lit with inviting lanterns or not, he didn’t want any more close calls. 

They moved quick, but cautious — Arthur's boots squelched in the mud with every step, and Bubba's hooves suctioned angrily as he clopped along. 

“Pretty nasty out here, huh?” Arthur spoke quietly to his horse, trying to calm his own nerves and those of his trusty steed. “We’ll be outta here soon.” 

Both him and Baby Bubba would need a clean up after trekking through the sludge of the swamp. Arthur could feel it soaking through the bottom threads of his pants and clogging up his spurs. 

“Who goes there?” A strangled voice hollered out. 

“Shit,” Arthur muttered. 

He hadn’t meant to get too close to the run-down, mossy cabin, but he had to go around from behind to avoid a small congregation of gators. 

“I’m armed!” 

“Just passin’ through,” Arthur hollered back, hoping it would ease the man’s nerves. “I ain’t here to rob ya or nothin’. Just simple folk passin’ through!” 

“Okay,” the man’s voice wavered, “show yourself, then.” 

“Alright, alright.” Arthur pushed past the brush and held his hands up. “See?” 

“Oh, well I’ll be damned,” the man said, resting his shotgun on his porch, “you really are just simple folk!” 

_Sure_. 

Arthur first thought it odd that the man had been standing guard and almost _preemptively_ searching for someone, but he realized it was probably better to be safe than sorry with the odd folk lurking about. 

“Well, I best be on my way.” Arthur nodded to the man, and began to turn. 

“No, no!” The haggardly old man stood abruptly, “At night? ‘Round these parts? You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“I get your drift, partner,” Arthur said, “I ran into some folks already, but I don’t really got much of a choice.” 

“Well, you’ve got one now!” The man beckoned Arthur to come closer. “It’s lonely out here, anyways. Come on in.” 

Arthur paused, unsure if it was a good idea to trust anybody in Lemoyne as far as he could spit. 

“Really, mister, you shouldn’t be out in these parts ‘til morning!” He insisted. “It ain’t safe.” 

_Damned right_ , Arthur thought. 

“Oh, what the hell,” Arthur said with a shrug. 

If it went poorly, Arthur was armed and this scrawny old hick wouldn’t stand a chance against him. He wasn’t worried in the slightest. 

Baby Bubba let out a snort of frustration as Arthur hitched him on the railing. “Ah, don’ worry, boy. We’ll head out the moment sunrise comes ‘round.” 

After hitching his horse, Arthur made his way up the porch. 

“So, you hungry, huh?” The man asked, his voice warm and inviting. “I got food inside, come along!” 

Arthur nodded to him as he held open the door for him, “Thank you, kindly.” 

“Uh huh,” the man said with a smile. 

Right as Arthur made his way inside, he realized he hadn’t asked the welcoming stranger his name. 

“Now,” the man growled behind him, “come ‘ere.” 

Before Arthur could even turn to face the man, something from behind smacked him hard, and he crumpled. 

  
  


* * *

The throbbing of his head woke him. 

_Jesus_. 

Arthur tried to turn on his side, and block out the dim lighting that was far too bright, but something stopped him. His arms were stuck under him and his hands felt numb. The more he tried to wriggle around, the more out of breath he became. The realization that he was tied down struck him like a heavy freight. 

Arthur let out a groan of frustration. He had _way_ too much cash on him to be robbed. It seemed all the cash he’d earned from the stolen stagecoach job would go to waste. Whether this was about the price on his head or the cash in his satchel, Dutch would be _furious_. 

_The hell was I thinkin’ going in here?_

“Hey-” Arthur called out, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded, "-you've got the upperhand, you best cut me loose, now." 

_Idiot_. 

“Oh goody, you’re awake!” A face came into Arthur’s line of view, and a sick grin split it in two. 

"Go on and take the money," Arthur encouraged him. "It ain't even mine to start." 

_Gain his trust, get loose, and shoot_ , Arthur thought. _You know not to trust folk . . . damned idiot._

"Your money?" The man cackled and his voice rang in Arthur's ears. 

His head hurt something awful — his back, his shoulders, his throat. 

"I didn't know about no money, boy." He spit a gob of phlegm in Arthur's face. 

Arthur barred his teeth at the man, desperately trying to figure out what in God's name the man was talking about. If it wasn't money, it was the bounty. 

_Wasn't it?_

Arthur was struggling to figure out the situation with how much his head was pounding. 

"The hell you want, then?" Arthur growled, trying to shake himself free again. 

The man clicked his tongue and shook his head at Arthur, “Don’t ya hate ol’ Sonny, now.” 

Arthur felt pressure down by his waist and he heard his belt clinking around as it came undone. 

_Wait-_

“Don’t hate ‘im,” Sonny cooed. 

_Oh God_. 

Arthur tugged helplessly on the twine wound tight around his wrist, panicking once he realized the same had been done to his legs. Arthur’s desperate attempts to pull free from the knots brought out a bout of laughter from the man. 

“Oh, you struggled!” He sounded almost gleeful, as he yanked down Arthur’s ranching trousers. “But you lost.” 

_Oh God_ , Arthur thought, _don’t_. 

The surface beneath him was as still as the night, but Arthur felt like he was plastered to the deck of a struggling steamboat in a storm — his head was spinning. Bile rose in his throat, and for a moment, he prayed he would choke on it and never see the light of day again. 

He tried thrashing around, hoping it would help him evade the situation, but it ended with him tumbling off the sour-smelling bed and smacking onto the floor, face down. 

“Quite a tussle, my pet.” Arthur could hear the sick smile in Sonny’s voice. “Quite a tussle.” 

Arthur never considered himself a good person, but _this_ was something he could never comprehend. Any time something happened to one of the women in camp, he was enraged — sick to his stomach. He could never fathom the sickness someone must have inside to drive them to this. 

A hand roughly pushed down against the tender spot on his head and shoved his face into the floor, splintered wood scraping at his cheek. 

Arthur was no longer sure if he was breathing. 

He could barely form a coherent thought in his head. 

Tremors shook Arthur’s whole body, and tears mixed with the blood on his cheek. He dug his fingernails into his palms and bit hard into his tongue, determined to keep quiet . . . determined not to give the man any more satisfaction. 

“See? Friendship ain’t so tough,” Sonny said with a grunt. “And neither is you.” 

Arthur held his breath, hoping it would be his last, and stopped fighting to stay awake. 

His consciousness wobbled as pain washed over him. 

Darkness took him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for this one, boys. I don't regret one moment I spent on this, but fucking _christ_ , it was rough to write this. Poor Arthur. He deserved so much better.
> 
> Progression:  
>  **1\. Nightmare at Sundown**  
>  2\. Drifting Away at Dusk  
> 


	2. Drifting Away at Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur comes back to.
> 
> He contemplates his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is equally as rough as the last. It just touches on what is going through his head after the _encounter_ he had; it is split into two sections, same as the last (I and II).
> 
> Warnings for **general violence** in both sections, descriptions of **graphic injuries** of both a physical/sexual nature in both sections, descriptions of **rape/assault/non-con elements** in both sections, descriptions of **suicidal ideation/suicidal thoughts** in section I, description of a **panic attack** in section II, thoughts surrounding **victim blaming** and guilt in general in section II, as well as slight mentions of **period-typical homophobia** in section II.
> 
> EDIT: I decided to go throughout the chapters and update the notes (regarding trigger warnings/content warnings) to be more specific and easy to see, i.e. bold them. Hope that helps!

Everything blurred together — words, sounds, feelings, _pain_ — until he smacked into the ground once more. Arthur felt dirt under him, rather than wood, and he quickly realized he was outside. He lifted his head up slowly, meeting Baby Bubba’s watchful stare — he was hovered over Arthur, as if he had been standing guard. 

He blinked his bleary eyes a few times, and wiggled his fingers — making sure he still had them. 

_What in Christ's name?_ He thought, taking a few moments to grasp onto reality. 

He felt light-headed and foggy — not entirely sure if he was awake or dreaming. Arthur began to try and force his trembling arms to support him, but the shock of the situation slowly dawned upon him. 

_Frayed rope turning his fingers purple, dirt-caked nails clawing down his back, heavy weight holding him down, hot breath in his ear_. 

Arthur scrunched his eyes shut and groaned. His arms went numb, and he crumpled into the dirt. 

He didn’t move for a while. 

Arthur contemplated staying put. If he waited long enough, rain would come; and the ground would mold around his frame as he sunk. A few days, then a few weeks — he would disintegrate into dust and mix with the dirt. No one would ever know he had even been there. 

Arthur licked his cracking, bloodied lips, and grimaced, feeling the grit that coated his mouth. His tongue was sour and his throat was raw. He propped himself up on his elbows and spat the foul taste out of his mouth. Arthur let loose a watery cough, feeling his chest and body ache. 

His mind was reeling. 

Baby Bubba whined at him to get up. 

He sighed, his eyes wet. Arthur held his throbbing head and his eyes fluttered shut. 

He began to consider laying back down. 

_He could come back_ , a voice in the back of his head snarled. Arthur’s head shot up and he shakily scrambled to his feet, searing pain biting him at every angle. His breath came fast and harsh, and darkness lurked at the edge of his vision. The last thing Arthur wanted was to see that scumbag's filthy face again. 

After a few moments of anxiously spinning around, Arthur realized his assailant was nowhere to be found. 

In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in sight. 

He figured it was less than an hour past midnight, since the moon was still high. And assuming his sense of direction was not impaired — Arthur seemed to have been dumped at the edge of the swamps, near the trail that led to Saint-Denis. 

He checked the trail twice more before he was sure no one was around to see him in the state he was. Arthur rolled his aching shoulders and rested his hands on his hips — fuming when he noticed his buttons were sloppily done half-up. He hastily fixed his trousers with clammy hands. 

_What a sick fucking wretch_ , Arthur thought, clenching his jaw. 

Arthur shook himself to his senses and searched his satchel. Arthur groaned in frustration once he realized he hadn’t even been robbed. He was short a few cigars and a bottle of gin. Not _one cent_ of three hundred dollars had been stolen off him. 

_You’ve got the money_ , he reminded himself. _Should be grateful._

But he was far from it. 

He was faint, and quickly becoming aware of his body’s protests. 

Arthur felt stabbing pains in all sorts of unsavory places, leaving his stomach feel more than unsettled. 

Arthur reached around to pat himself down and assess his injuries: a raised, throbbing spot near the base of his skull, battered knees, wrists and ankles burned from rope, and a pain like nothing he had felt before inside of him — like a dagger scraped him raw and tore his insides out. 

Arthur felt down his backside and nausea churned his stomach. His behind and legs were slick. 

“Oh my Lord . . .” He whispered, his voice shaking. 

Arthur stared at his unsteady hands, his blood black in the moonlight. 

Arthur reminded himself he had been through worse — near death experiences were a given, being an outlaw. Bone-shattering shotgun shells, fevered infections from deep wounds, and brutal beatings that turned into torture. He once cauterized his own wounds, inflicted by the hands of Colm O’Driscoll. 

But he had _never_ felt like this. 

He felt like screaming until his lungs gave out. 

He felt like he had been hollowed out. 

He felt a startling urge to pull out his gun. 

He felt empty. 

Arthur looked up and down the trail once more, and then back at his horse. 

He inhaled a shuddering breath as he grappled clumsily for his gun, weighing it in his hand. 

Arthur cocked it and stared at it. 

He stood there so long — just _staring_ — that his vision unfocused and he felt like he was looking through the gun and staring at his feet. 

_The hell are you doing?_

His chest burned with shame, and Arthur sunk in on himself. An anguished, guttural cry escaped him as burning tears trickled down his face. The night hung heavy over him, squeezing tight around his chest and stealing his breath. Quiet sobs wracked his frame, and Arthur tried to convince himself they were from the pain. 

Baby Bubba nudged his muzzle into Arthur’s shoulder, snorting in his ear. 

“M’sorry, boy,” Arthur whispered, resting his forehead against his horse’s. 

He inhaled a few shaky breaths, leaning against Bubba for support, then slipped his gun back into its holster. 

Arthur pulled himself up onto the saddle — preparing to grip the reins and pat his horse's hide — but he recoiled almost immediately, baring his teeth against a sudden stab of pain. He looked down at himself, and winced upon noticing a pool of blood forming in the base of his saddle. Arthur took in shallow, bated breaths as he gingerly readjusted himself into a less trying position. 

The immediate shock of what happened slowly faded into a milky haze in the back of his mind, seeping down his neck and into his spine; and Arthur felt sparks of panic and fury overtake what was left of the haze. His frame began to vibrate with rage. Anger so intense and hot coiled up inside him. He felt woozy and sweaty from the furious thumping of his heart. 

Arthur wanted to kill him. 

He wanted to murder that poor excuse for a man. 

He wanted to tie him up, beat him to shit, then throw him to the gators. 

He wanted to watch him _scream_. 

“Les’ go, boy.” Arthur dug his heel in, and Bubba took off. 

  


* * *

Arthur followed the path along the outskirts of the swamp, avoiding going in any further than he had to. They rounded a sharp corner, and slid into the brush off the path. Arthur continued on into the swamp, compulsively checking his compass — eyes darting around for any sign of trouble. 

A few feet further, and Sonny’s cabin was in sight. But instead of charging in — guns blazin' — like he imagined, Arthur reared his horse to a halt. 

He stared blankly at the cabin — lantern still lit outside. A wave of dizziness swept over him so suddenly, Arthur feared he would fall from his saddle. 

Arthur stumbled off of Baby Bubba, his left foot getting caught in the stirrups, and fell into a heap. He couldn't figure out if the thrumming in his chest and the dizziness in his head were attributed to blood loss, or if it was from being near the cabin — _near Sonny_. Arthur couldn't pin which reason was more concerning. 

He got to his feet and shook himself off. 

_Get your shit together, Morgan_. 

He reached around Bubba for his double-barrel shotgun, his wet hands slipping while he fumbled for bullets. Arthur took cover behind a tree, a few strides closer to the cabin, and pumped his shotgun. 

_Move_. 

The fervent rage he felt on his ride to Sonny's cabin had faded and morphed into cold, unbridled terror. 

The more Arthur convinced himself to move, the more tension continued to build up inside him, rooting him to the ground — his legs tingled and his feet were frozen beneath him. He leaned heavily into the tree, gripping his gun tight. 

_Fucking move._

A stifled creak emerged from inside the cabin, and Arthur spun around before he even processed what he was doing. 

He sprinted back to his horse, and threw himself on Bubba. Without a second thought, he yanked the reins back and high-tailed it out of the swamps. They shot back in the direction of Clemens Point. 

_Coward_ , Arthur thought bitterly as they sped away. _Fucking coward._

Arthur felt numb with shock, phasing in and out as he rode back to camp. 

Baby Bubba galloped furiously until they reached the beginnings of white-picket fences. Arthur didn't need to worry about tugging on the reins, or urging his horse to slow down — Baby Bubba's nerves evaporated the moment he recognized the path him and Arthur had traveled him up and down many times before. Bubba knew where he was. He knew they were out of danger. 

Arthur noticed they had slowed down and blinked at his surroundings. 

_Almost there_ , Arthur thought. _Almost home._

"Good boy," Arthur whispered, stroking his coat. "Good boy." 

Baby Bubba snorted appreciatively, and he continued to trot slow and steady back to camp — listening attentively to any protests from Arthur. 

As they rode back to camp, Arthur felt a surge of worry; he noticed the more he moved around, the more he could feel hot, sticky blood oozing from him. 

He briefly considered seeing a doctor, but threw that out the window as soon as he thought of it. 

What would he even say? What would they say to him? He wasn't a good man — Arthur had robbed, beaten, and killed folks mercilessly without second thought. Albeit, many of those folks were not much better than him, Arthur still did what he did. 

Arthur was an outlaw. 

If a doctor found out he was an outlaw, would they even care what had happened to him? Would they blame him? Would they think it was a consequence of his poor decisions in life? That it was his fault? 

Finding out he was an outlaw was one thing, but — a _queer_ — how would they respond to that? Arthur had bedded plenty men and women. With a life like that, would a doctor think he deserved it? 

_Did I deserve that?_

He tried pushing the avalanche of tumbling thoughts aside, and reared Baby Bubba to a stop at a lake not too far from camp. He stepped down, stripped, and shuffled towards the water's edge. 

Arthur shuddered as he waded into the frigid water. He clicked his tongue twice and motioned for his horse to follow him. 

Bubba whinnied in surprise as he plodded into the lake. 

"Shh, you're alright, boy." Arthur cupped water in his hands and let it run in between his fingers over Baby Bubba. "Just gotta get ourselves cleaned up." 

Arthur pulled water through his horse's mane, weeding out the clumps of dried mud, then did the same to his own hair to wash out the coagulated blood. 

As Arthur swished the filthy taste in his mouth out, another jarring thought crossed his mind — _what would the gang think?_

_The hell am I supposed to say next time Charles asks me on a hunting trip?_

_Should I tell Dutch? Hosea?_

He knew there were people in camp who had been hurt that way. _Plenty_ people. 

Arthur knew it wasn't unheard of. 

Arthur once shot one of the men who hurt Karen. She brushed it off with nothing more than a shaky voice. Arthur never heard her make a peep about it after, or about any other time. 

Shortly before he met her, Tilly slit a man's throat at twelve. 

His body shivered, whether it was in response to contact with icy water or from a resurfacing memory — he wasn't sure. 

Arthur remembered — back when he was barely fifteen years old — watching Grimshaw near blow a man's head off. Dutch helped her bury the body. Arthur stood idly by, unsure of what transpired in town earlier that day. He watched her spit on the man's unmarked grave. Hosea ushered him inside and tucked him in, insisting that Arthur shouldn't worry. 

Arthur figured the widowed Mrs. Adler had a poor time with the O'Driscoll scum before him, Dutch, and Micah showed up. Those sick people were notorious for crimes of that nature. Arthur knew she was shaken by more than the death of her husband. He was sure Dutch knew too — with the quiet way he spoke to her as he gently wrapped her in a layer of warmer clothing. 

Abigail didn't talk about it much, but everyone knew she was a working lady before she met John. From the few he had encountered, Arthur knew working women always had it hard — they experienced all sorts of violence just for doing what they could to get by. 

Mr. Pearson and Reverend Swanson kicked a man to death for laying a hand on Mary-Beth. 

Even the scrawny, old, and withered Herr Strauss — who barely knows his way around anything other than a typewriter — was rumored to have shot a vicious young man point-blank in the face some time before he joined the gang. 

Violence of that sort was rampant throughout the country, but often met with a hard, cold fist. Arthur had laid men down into their final resting place for hurting folks in that way — on more than one occasion. 

_And you ain't even had the guts to kill the bastard_. 

Whether the men got put down like dogs, or ran loose before they could pay the price, none of the women ever said much — even the folks who had dealt with it more than once. Arthur was in shambles over one encounter. 

_Stop being a pathetic bastard and get your act together_ , Arthur thought irritably. _Act like a God damned man for once in your stupid, sad life_. 

He didn’t lose the money — he knew he wouldn't have to worry about making any excuses. Arthur could easily clean up, brush it off, and pretend it never happened. As long as he could calm the tremors in his hands by morning, Arthur wouldn't have to worry about a thing. 

_Walk it off, and rest up_ , he thought. _Then, forget about it_. 

He splashed the cold water in his face, breathing deeply. 

_You'll feel better in the morning_ , he reassured himself. 

Arthur finished cleaning himself and Baby Bubba off, then trudged out of the water. He felt gross slipping the same soiled clothes back on, but he didn’t have much of a choice. 

Not much longer than a ten minute, amble trot, Arthur arrived back at camp. It was a quiet night at Clemens Point, besides a few folks' drunken snores. Arthur hitched Baby Bubba at the edge of camp, wiped down what he could of the saddle, and stroked his spotted coat one last time before limping to his tent. 

He considered hiding his clothes after stripping, but he figured it would look worse off in the long run. 

Arthur settled on slipping them in with the rest of the usual laundry for Grimshaw and the girls. 

He could push it off as a clumsy accident. 

_A bullet graze, somethin’, or other_. 

Arthur slipped into his night clothes and collapsed on his cot. 

He was out in minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He made it home safe . . . for the most part.
> 
> And damn, when he said _oh my lord_ in the game, I just about bursted into tears. I hate it here.
> 
> Also, most players who encountered Sonny in the swamp dealt with it by Arthur heading straight back to kill his ass, but I wanted to tackle it a bit differently. When I played through, Arthur killed Sonny immediately after he caught his breath. I thought about whether that was an accurate representation of how he would deal with it and contemplated on how I should write that for a while. A lot of conflicting, painful emotions come up from something like this — anger is one of them, but fear is another. I could see Arthur going back to tear the man limb from limb (or leave that to the gators), but I could also see him going back, then getting overwhelmed by the situation. He may have killed plenty other rapists in his lifetime, but when it came to his own . . . I feel like that is a little bit of a different story.
> 
>  _DISCLAIMER_ : When Arthur is thinking about the women in camp who have been assaulted in the past, it is _him_ who miscalculates their struggles. The goal is not to minimize their experiences; he simply isn't aware of them. This is in _no way_ meant to demean their struggles, it is simply from Arthur's perspective*.
> 
> *Which I will later switch up between Arthur and different camp members!
> 
> Progression:  
>  **1\. Nightmare at Sundown**  
>  **2\. Drifting Away at Dusk**  
>  3\. Just a Bump  
> 


	3. Just a Bump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.
> 
> Some folks in the camp are a little suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A HEADS-UP:_ the first section (I) of this chapter is written from Arthur's perspective, and the second (II) is written from Tilly's perspective!
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of symptoms surrounding the **aftermath of a head injury** throughout both sections, mentions of **blood/general injuries** throughout both sections, slight references to **alcoholism/alcohol abuse** in section I, and for **emetophobia** (there are descriptions of a character gettings physically sick) in section I.
> 
> EDIT: I decided to go throughout the chapters and update the notes (regarding trigger warnings/content warnings) to be more specific and easy to see, i.e. bold them. Hope that helps!

Arthur woke with a start, barely past seven o'clock in the morning. 

He felt like he had been holding his breath in his sleep. 

“Ugh,” Arthur groaned, pushing himself up on weak arms. 

He felt the back of his head and found a swollen knot near the base of his skull. He rubbed his thumb across it and gasped as a hot barb of pain shot through his head — it was much more tender than he expected. 

Uncle, surprisingly upright, walked past Arthur’s tent and snorted. “Looks like some feller needs to lay off the liquor!” 

“Go to Hell,” Arthur spat. 

Arthur couldn’t get himself to look up and face Uncle. He felt like he was swaying; the grass was waving at him from beneath his feet. 

Arthur closed his eyes and held his head — it pounded to the beat of his heart. It made his eyes feel like they were rattling around in his sockets. It made his neck feel like a strained stem, barely supporting a plump, ripened fruit. 

“You all right, Arthur?” Karen’s voice rang in his ears. “You ain’t lookin’ so good.” 

_I can’t deal with this shit_. 

“Ah, leave him be.” He heard Lenny say. 

Lenny looked pointedly to Uncle and Karen and snickered, “Not like either of you folk got any room to talk.” 

“Hey!” 

“Oh, you watch your tone, boy.” 

The two bickered and Lenny laughed at them. 

Uncle, with his hands on his hips, threw insults at Lenny, and Karen protested Lenny's comments, no matter how spot on they were. Arthur would usually laugh and join Lenny, or tell them off — depending on his mood — but he felt horrid. 

_Shut the hell up, for Christ’s sake_ , he thought. 

The usual bustling of the camp was obnoxious and overwhelming. 

_Every one of ya, shut the hell up_. 

He underestimated how much the whack on the back of his head would hurt — as well as the rest of him. 

Sitting upright brought about a different wave of pain — the tension in his muscles burned, his shoulders clicked with each breath he took in, and his wrists shook painfully under his weight. 

His legs felt like rags rung dry, hanging loosely over the edge of his cot, and his behind throbbed the longer he sat up on his lumpy, uneven sheets. Arthur wanted to lie back down, but he feared any sudden movement would make him hurl. 

The crunching grass grated against Arthur’s eardrums as more footsteps approached, signalling that Mary-Beth joined them. 

“Oh, Arthur!” She squealed. “You look horrible.” 

_I feel horrible_. 

"Everything okay?" Charles spoke smoothly, pushing past Uncle. 

_No._

His throat felt hot and saliva pooled under his tongue as he battled back nausea. 

_Don’t make a damned scene_. 

The last thing he wanted to do was get sick in front of the whole camp — Arthur didn’t need anymore questions raised that he wouldn’t even begin to know how to answer. Arthur was tempted to ask one of them to get Hosea, but he kept his lips sealed and jaw clenched tight. He worried something other than words would come out. 

“Arthur?” Karen asked, her voice softer. 

Mary-Beth took a tentative step toward him, and whispered, “What happened to ya?” 

"Give him some space," Charles said, raising a cautious hand out to Mary-Beth. 

“Yeah, you girls best scoot back some,” Uncle warned. “He’s lookin’ a little green ‘round the gills.” 

“What’s goin’ on?” Tilly asked, walking up behind Karen. 

All their concerned voices and urgent questions weren’t helping. The sounds blurred together and Arthur felt like their words echoed in his ears. Every single sound was amplified by the ache in his head. He just wanted them to be quiet. Everything was too loud. 

Everything was too much. 

His stomach gurgled its protests and bile burned the back of his throat. 

Arthur opened his mouth, tied between saying _cut it out_ , _shut up_ , and _fuck off_. 

But he could only manage a strangled: “Stop-” before keeling over and losing control of his stomach. 

“Christ!” Karen hollered, scurrying back. 

“What’d I tell you?” Uncle grumbled, lumbering off to get himself a drink — earning himself a glare from Charles. 

“Oh, my.” Mary-Beth put her hand over her mouth. “Miss Grimshaw? Miss Grimshaw, come quick!” 

"Arthur." Charles leaned closer to Arthur, his hand hovering above his back, "Stay put, I'll be back in a moment." 

_As if I'm goin' anywhere, you big oaf_. 

Tilly winced. “I’ll go get Mister Matthews, yeah?” 

_Please._

Susan Grimshaw rushed over and set a tin down by Arthur’s feet, and he flinched back from her. 

“Goodness gracious, Mister Morgan,” She shook her head at him. “How much did you have?” 

Arthur gripped the bucket with shaking hands. “Didn’t-” 

“ _Bull_.” Arthur heard somebody mutter nearby. 

“If this is your way of celebrating a job well-done, it sure don’t look too fun, _ese_.” Javier chuckled, strutting past Arthur’s tent. 

“Arthur? _Arthur_.” Hosea was suddenly by his side. He rested a comforting hand on his back, and brushed back the mousy hair sticking to his forehead. 

Arthur appreciated Hosea being there. He _wanted_ him there. He wanted to rest his head in his lap, and lay there for the rest of the day. But he also wanted to be as far away from him as he possibly could. Arthur felt exposed — Hosea’s hand lightly rubbing circles into his back, right over raised scratches and darkening bruises. 

Arthur gagged, splattering the bucket. 

“You’re okay, Arthur,” Hosea said softly. 

Arthur blinked slowly, peering into the old and rusted, sick-filled bucket. He usually had a strong stomach — and after letting everything out, he genuinely started feeling better — but once he saw a short, wiry hair swirling in the bucket, he retched again. 

A small sob escaped Arthur, and Hosea hushed him. 

The moment Hosea noticed camp members loitering, he snapped, "Go get to work, you silly bastards!" 

He scowled, waving off everyone who had gathered. 

Tilly and Mary-Beth spun around in an instant. Miss Grimshaw tugged Karen along. Lenny took off in the direction Uncle was headed. Abigail — who had been conversing with Mr. Pearson, young Jack at her heels — tugged her son along before he paid too much mind to his surroundings. Javier shrugged and shuffled off to get himself coffee. 

"Go on, _git!"_ Hosea hollered after everyone scattering off, "Make yourselves useful for once!" 

And then, much softer, Hosea turned back to Arthur and said: “You’re okay, my boy. We’ll get you fixed up right.” 

_"Ugh."_ Arthur began to feel light-headed as his body continued to violently expel all the fluids from him. 

“I hope you didn’t spend all that hard-earned money at the saloon, son,” Dutch joked, in a slightly accusatory tone, as he made his way over. 

_Shit_ , Arthur thought through his haze. 

Hosea glared at Dutch, who had just returned from Rhodes, and shook his head sharply. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Arthur heard Dutch's demeanor change, his tone melting into one of worry rather than accusation. 

Dutch pulled up a chair quietly, and sat down across from Hosea, whose focus remained on Arthur. Easing Dutch's concerns was the last thing on Hosea's mind. 

Charles returned with a canteen of fresh, cold water and handed it to Hosea. 

Charles turned to leave, but stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing a dark, angry knot encrusted with dried blood that stuck out on the base of Arthur's skull. He reached out to Hosea timidly and tapped his shoulder. The older man looked up to Charles, then followed his line of sight. 

Hosea bit his tongue, holding back a gasp, after noticing the lump on the back of his boy's head. Hosea squeezed Charles' hand and nodded his thanks, sending the man on his way. 

"Here," Hosea said, urging Arthur to take the canteen. 

Arthur grabbed it, but did not drink from it. He gripped it with shaky hands and remained hunkered down over the tin. 

"You okay there, Arthur?" Dutch asked, surprised by Arthur's silence. 

Whenever Arthur got hungover, he was usually somewhere between laughing at himself and apologizing profusely after missing the bucket and pissing himself. 

Once the headache-inducing haze worse off, he would grow embarrassed — pushing his overindulgence off as a miscalculation, or blaming it on his lack of common sense — then, swear it would never happen again . . . _until it did_. 

Dutch quickly dismissed the possibility of Arthur being hungover after taking in how wrecked the young man looked. 

He looked to Hosea instinctively for direction, who still had one arm wrapped loosely around Arthur. 

Hosea lifted his free hand and made a quick, jerking motion — imitating something being rammed into him. 

Dutch's eyebrows crinkled in concern. 

_What?_ Dutch mouthed. 

Hosea patted his own head before tilting his head to Arthur, and Dutch slowly understood what Hosea was trying to make clear to him. 

_He was hit?_ Dutch's mouth parted. 

_In the head_ , Hosea confirmed, his face growing grim. 

Both men sat in silence, waiting for Arthur to regain his bearings. 

After some time passed — whether it was a few seconds or several minutes, he wasn't sure — Arthur's dizziness faded, and the realization that he never put the cash in camp funds box, or added a mark on the ledger, smacked him in the face. 

Dutch probably thought he _did_ spend all the money on himself. 

Or worse — Dutch thought he _lost_ the money. 

Arthur made a quick move to reach for his satchel, clumsily knocking over a half-empty can of peaches and scattering pack of cigarettes in the process. 

Hosea jumped in surprise. "What on earth you think you're doin'?" 

"Stagecoach," Arthur insisted. "I forgot to turn in-" 

"Arthur, stop worryin' yourself about the money," Hosea interrupted. "Sit with us a moment, please?" 

Arthur stared at Hosea, then looked to Dutch. They were analyzing him closely, and he began to worry what they were thinking. 

_Shoulda just said you was hungover, you ass._

"Go on, and drink some, son," Dutch urged. 

Arthur obliged. 

He swished some in between the gaps in his teeth, then spat it back out in the bucket before swallowing any. 

The cool stream of water eased the stinging of his throat and diluted the bitter taste in his mouth, but it choked him up as he drank greedily. 

“Slowly,” Hosea said, shooting a worried glance at Dutch, who frowned back at him. 

As he rehydrated his aching body, Arthur's head began to clear. He began itching to change his sheets — feeling sticky and uncomfortable. Arthur felt his chest seize up at the possibility of having to stand, and expose his soiled sheets and undershorts. At the thought, Arthur inhaled a splash of droplets into his windpipe and he coughed, his nose running. 

"Easy, Arthur," Hosea soothed. 

Arthur handed him the canteen and caught his breath, leaning over to cover his face with his hands. 

“M’sorry,” Arthur rasped. 

“It’s fine, Arthur. I-” Dutch paused, confusion clear on his face. “You get robbed, son?” 

Arthur tried to keep his face blank. "Nah, I didn't get robbed or nothin'." 

"Then, what happened to your head?" Hosea immediately challenged him, failing to rein himself in. 

"Got bucked." Arthur forced out a weak laugh. "Bubba was spooked by sum'n — a snake, maybe." 

Dutch watched Arthur — apprehension clear on his face from his fuzzled brows and flitting eyes — fiddling with the rings on his fingers as he listened. 

“That’s how you hit your head?” Hosea confirmed, giving Arthur a look that made him feel self-conscious. “You got bucked?” 

“Yeah,” he lied through his teeth, praying it was convincing. “Tha's all.”

"That's a nasty bump, Arthur." Hosea frowned, trying to picture how Arthur would have scraped up his face from hitting the back of his head. "You should rest up a few days." 

"Ah, I'll be alright, Hosea," Arthur said. "I'm already feelin' a bit be-" 

"You _will_ rest up, Arthur." Hosea leaned back, crossing his arms. "That was not a suggestion." 

Arthur opened and closed his mouth. There was no arguing with Hosea. 

"No buts about it, son. I'll inform Miss Grimshaw to get something to ice that goose egg you've gotten yourself," Dutch said. "In the meantime, the most useful thing you can do is stay put." 

"Fine, fine. S'alright with me," Arthur said cooly. "Okay if I wash up in a while, though? Feel like I've got dirt all up in my business from fallin' off Bubba like a tenderfoot." 

"That's fine, but you best rest up, Arthur," Hosea insisted. "A bump on the head — as light as it may sound — is far from bein' a joke." 

"Understood." 

"Good." Hosea stood, and Dutch followed his lead. "Do tell if you need anything, though. Alright, Arthur?" 

"'Course," Arthur said. 

Dutch nodded curtly and stalked away without another word. 

Hosea was reluctant to leave Arthur be, but he pushed the nerves coiling in his stomach down and followed after Dutch. Once out of their line of sight, Arthur tugged down his tent flap to strip his bottoms and bedclothes. 

  


* * *

The sun rose high above camp and burned into the backs of everyone's neck who wasn't shaded by trees or tents. 

Tilly wiped sweat off her brow as she fumbled with wrinkled articles of clothing. They were behind on laundry — some of it had been sitting there for two days straight — and it began to reek from being crumpled up in the humid weather of Lemoyne. 

"Jesus," Karen muttered. "Tilly look at this." 

"Hm?" Tilly set down Mr. Williamson's basket, and walked over to the place Karen set up to wash. "What is it, Karen?" 

Karen grabbed a pair of britches by the hemn and held them out for Tilly to see. 

"These are soaked," Karen said, her face pale. "Sheets, too." 

The beige ranching pants were covered in grit and damp with blood. 

"Those Arthur's?" Tilly asked, her stomach churning. 

Karen nodded. "I'm startin' to think he didn't fall off his horse." 

"That ain't none of our business, and you know it," Tilly said with a grimace. "Wash them up good, and you best not let them _stain_." 

Mary-Beth was whistling as she made her way down the hillside towards Karen and Tilly, lugging four baskets, two in each hand. She frowned at the tension in Karen's shoulders and the look on Tilly's face. 

"What's the fuss?" She called out, picking up her pace. 

"Mister Morgan seems to have taken more of a fall than he let on," Karen said, lifting Arthur's drawers for her to see. 

"Christ, are those really his?" Mary-Beth dropped a basket, nearly stumbling on it as it rolled down the hill. 

"Iddn't that what I just said?" Karen rolled her eyes, quickly leaning back to avoid Tilly's swat. 

"Stop wavin' that around, would you?" Tilly snapped. 

"She's gonna be helping me wash, she might as well know!" Karen protested, reaching a hand out to stop the basket Mary-Beth lost hold of. "Are we really just gonna ignore this?" 

"That sure is a lot," Mary-Beth said, squinting at Arthur's sheets. "Kieran was just tellin' me to keep an eye out." 

"Kieran?" Karen scoffed, scrubbing roughly against the fabric. "An eye out for what?" 

"Kieran was takin' to the horses, as usual, and he saw blood in Arthur's saddle." Mary-Beth chewed at the inside of her lip. "He said it dripped all down the sides." 

The three women sat for a few moments. 

"I just wasn't expectin' that much blood, is all." Mary-Beth frowned. 

"That really don't sound too good," Karen lowered her voice, and looked to Tilly. "Should we say somethin'?" 

"Don't go runnin' your mouth to Grimshaw just yet," Tilly said. "I'm gonna go check on him and see if we can't help out at all." 

Tilly pushed herself up and dusted off her knees. "In the meantime — Karen, keep your trap shut." 

Karen huffed behind her, muttering something under her breath, as Tilly walked up the hill. 

Karen was in a mood — the kind of mood she usually gets in when she's been sobered up for a day or two. Tilly didn't read into her frustrations too much; it was nothing personal. She just didn't want poor Arthur to be the butt of Karen's obnoxious attitude and carelessness. 

Tilly trudged up the hill, feeling more winded than usual from the higher humidity of the south. As she made her way to her tent, Tilly passed Mrs. Adler. She sat cross-legged under a tarp, her blonde hair twirled back around her shoulders, sharpening a knife. Tilly nodded her greetings, and Mrs. Adler merely lifted an eyebrow, then resumed grating the leather hilt of her belt against the dagger. 

Tilly slipped into the shade of the tent she and Mary-Beth shared, and dug through her chest for some spare sanitary napkins. She pulled out three and slipped them into the breast pocket of her dress. 

Tilly walked up to Arthur's tent, where he was laying down against a slab of meat, acting as a cold compress, keeping his head and neck propped up. She was tempted to leave and come back another time — he looked worn, but she worried it wouldn't be the best idea to wait things out. 

"Hey, Arthur," Tilly said softly, tapping her fingers against the wood of his wagon. "Arthur, you up?" 

Arthur grunted, jerking himself awake. "Oh . . . what can I do you for, Miss Tilly?" 

"How's the head?" She eyed him, looking for any signs of discomfort or distress. "Feelin' any better?" 

"A bit." He made a face at her that Tilly couldn't make out — something halfway between a smile and a wince. "Just a knock on the head, ain't too serious." 

"Glad to hear it, Arthur." 

"Mmhm." He nodded slowly, being mindful to avoid triggering another bout of nausea. 

She could tell he wasn't eager to talk, so Tilly quieted and stepped inside Arthur's tent. 

"We're doing laundry today," Tilly crossed her arms and reluctantly rushed herself to the point. "Your batch was quite a mess." 

A flicker of fear appeared on his face as quickly as it disappeared. "Sorry for the trouble, Tilly. I-" 

"No, I'm sorry, Arthur." Tilly backtracked and clasped her hands together. "I just meant that we were worried." 

"Isn't anythin' to write home about." Arthur gritted his teeth in a poor attempt at smiling. 

"That Kieran boy told us your saddle said otherwise." Tilly felt her stomach flop, beginning to worry Arthur would throw a fit because of her railing on him — he wasn't looking her in the eyes anymore, and he had his fists clenched tight. 

"That _Kieran boy_ tellin' the whole camp my business?" Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. 

"No, he really only told Mary-Beth, who told us." Tilly blustered. 

_"Us?"_ Arthur barked, and struggled to push himself into a sitting position. 

"Just me an' Karen! Please, Arthur, he was just worried." Tilly put her hands up, taking a step back. "And . . . so am I." 

Arthur groaned at himself, taking note of the defensive position Tilly had moved herself into. He knew better than to yell at her. 

"'M'sorry, Tilly. I ain't mean to raise my voice at ya." Arthur eased himself back against the cot with a huff. "Just got a gouge somewhere not too pleasant — a bit embarrassin'." 

"You musta been bleeding somethin' awful," Tilly said quietly. 

"Just a lil' more than what I would've expected, it's slowin' down," Arthur tried reassuring her, but it only raised more questions. 

"I understand," she said, a small smile returning on her face. "It'd be a shame for you to ruin some perfectly good clothes, though." 

She slipped the soft, white napkins out of her pockets and tossed them on his cot. He gave her an odd look as he picked up the padded rags and turned them over in his hands. 

She chuckled at him. "They're absorbent."

"Absorbent, meanin' what-" Arthur's eyebrows knitted in confusion. 

"They'll keep you from ruinin' your britches, Arthur," Tilly explained. "You'll even be savin' us a batch of laundry." 

"Thank you," Arthur said, awkwardly, already feeling regret sink in from snapping at her. "I am sorry, Tilly. I shouldn't've been so-" 

"Don't you even mention it, Arthur Morgan. It's long an' forgotten." Tilly gave him a warm smile. "And 'member to throw 'em out once you're done." 

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but Tilly had already turned, heading back to her pile of laundry she had barely made a dent in. 

The wild lilies and crabgrass tickled at Tilly's ankles as she hustled down the hill. Mary-Beth was whistling weakly and dunking clothes to the beat of whatever disjointed rhythm ran through her head, while Karen alternated between scrubbing linens and scratching at the grass rash aggravating her legs. 

Karen heard her quick feet and called over her shoulder: "How's the poor bastard?" 

"Definitely better than this mornin', if that's what you mean," Tilly said, crouching down to grab pairs of filthy unmentionables. "Though, he did get all white-knuckled with me. He was pissy as a mare in foal." 

Mary-Beth stopped whistling and looked to Tilly, a distant look in her eyes. "What'd he say all that bleedin' was from?" 

"Musta fell on somethin' sharp when he got bucked-" Tilly shrugged. "-gouged him pretty good, I'm guessin'." 

Karen snorted. 

Mary-Beth shot her a glare. "You've got somethin' to say?" 

"No, no . . . I just-" the grin slipped from Karen's face and she sighed. "I dunno, somethin' just don't seem right about this." 

Tilly nodded. "Sure does seem a pretty odd thing to be secretive about, considerin' his head is much worse." 

"You can say that again," Mary-Beth said. 

Mary-Beth did not bother starting up her whistling again. Her breathy, but lively tune fell flat in the early afternoon. The three women finished their laundry, as the sun continued to beat them down, without another word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, now that I'm getting further into this story, I had a realization: during my playthrough, the interaction with Sonny took place _after_ the gang had moved into Shady Belle (a.k.a. post-Blessed Are the Peacemakers, and post-The Battle of Shady Belle). But I ended up writing it with the gang still hiding out in Clemens Point (with the conflict between the Greys and the Braithwaites in mind). So, for future reference, I will have the gang be slowly intertwining with the families while they're still at Clemens Point. The timeline is a little off, but will progress in the same direction — just in a slightly different order. Sorry for that mishap, folks. Bare with me lmao.
> 
> Let me know if you have any suggestions and requests you'd like me to consider. I have most things planned out in my head, but I am willing to add things/change perspectives to particular characters if anyone wishes. I'm writing in third person omniscient to get the best of both worlds, but if any of y'all prefer something from the eyes of a certain character — _do_ reach out! Arthur's POV is obviously the main carrier of the story, but there will be various perspectives throughout the chapters. So far, we've got Tilly — I plan on plenty with Hosea. I have ideas for Charles, John, Bill, Dutch, Mary-Beth, Kieran, and some others in the future.
> 
> Anyways, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. The fourth chapter will be out next Sunday (but taking place on the same day this one does, just later in the afternoon/evening). And always, thank you for reading!
> 
> Progression:  
>  **1\. Nightmare at Sundown**  
>  **2\. Drifting Away at Dusk**  
>  **3\. Just a Bump**  
>  4\. Tea for Your Troubles  
> 


	4. Tea for Your Troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, now cleaned up after the night's terrors and the morning's upheaval, is feeling better . . . for the most part.
> 
> Hosea checks in on him, and other folks attempt to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of the chapter is written from Arthur's perspective (I), then the second from Hosea's (I); this is just later in the day from where the last chapter left off, so no big time jumps (yet). Anyways, enjoy and mind the warnings!
> 
> Warnings for some in-depth descriptions of **head & general injuries** in both sections I and II, descriptions of reflecting on **rape/assault** in section I, talks of **victim blaming** and general regret/guilt, descriptions of an **anxiety attack** in section I, and **implied sexual abuse of children** (no details, very vague) in section I.
> 
> EDIT: I decided to go throughout the chapters and update the notes (regarding trigger warnings/content warnings) to be more specific and easy to see, i.e. bold them. Hope that helps!

Arthur shifted on his scratchy cot, a spare sheet thrown loosely over him — courtesy of Mary-Beth. He had been urging himself to get up for the last hour. 

Tilly was kind enough to offer support, even after he threw a fit, yet Arthur hadn't moved an inch since she talked to him. He needed to change into something clean and figure out how to throw on one of those rags. 

He wondered why she carried the odd bandages around; they were too thick and bulky for a small injury, but too thin and narrow to wrap around a gouge from a knife, much less a bullet wound. 

The spare meat Miss Grimshaw snagged from Mr. Pearson, as good as the cool slab felt on the back of his head, was slowly warming from his body heat and greasing up his hair. It was chilled in the early morning, but as the afternoon stretched on, the light metallic smell morphed into a tangy stench as it rested under him. He needed to get up and wash himself off. 

_Get off your ass, for Christ's sake._

Arthur grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He cracked the tweak from his neck and rolled the tension from his shoulders, then snuck the padded fabric Tilly offered him into the pocket of his pants that he would change into. He was grateful to see he hadn't bled too much more after changing from his night clothes into an extra pair of undergarments. His cot and the pants he had on remained clean. 

His head no longer felt like it would topple from his shoulders; the blunt object that felt like it was trying to bat his head from his shoulders at every move he made settled into a dull ache that left him mildly disoriented with some resting nausea. 

He stood and slowly approached Susan Grimshaw, who was preoccupied with nagging Molly O'Shea, "'Scuse me, Miss Grimshaw?" 

She turned away from Molly, who was red in the face and flustered. "Mister Morgan! Good to see you up and about." 

"Yeah, I just was returnin' . . . this." Arthur awkwardly held out the floppy, meat she fetched him earlier in the morning. "I wasn't too sure what you wanted me to-" 

"Oh, yes, of course." She grabbed it from him, digging her fingers in hard to avoid it slithering from her grasp. "I'll take care of that." 

Susan stepped away to take care of the spoiled meat, and Molly stayed put — her hands resting on her hips, knuckles white. 

Arthur opened his mouth to say something — maybe along the lines of: _Old lady raggin' on you again?_ — but Arthur stood there, staring blankly, unsure if he had anything worthwhile to say. 

"Alright, Arthur?" She asked, her face mimicking a look of concern even though her voice lacked it. "Dutch said you've got yourself a knock on the head." 

"Perfectly fine," Arthur mumbled. 

"Good." 

She grew short with him, eyeing Miss Grimshaw make her way back over to them, and Arthur took that as an opportunity to exit. Arthur nodded to the two women and turned to leave, but Susan held up a hand. "You take care, now, Mister Morgan. If you need anything else, you be sure to let me know, ya hear?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Good. On your way then, Arthur." Susan pursed her lips, and turned back to a disgruntled Molly — who was clearly disappointed Arthur's distraction didn't save her from more of Miss Grimshaw's berating. 

Arthur walked over to Dutch's tent to let him know he would be heading out for a bit, but the flaps were pulled back and he was nowhere to be found. Hosea was gone, too, which meant they were likely together. 

"Mister Morgan?" A light, grainey voice spoke behind him. 

Arthur turned to face the wide eyed, tousled ginger. "Ah, Reverend. What can I do ya for?" 

"Not much, Arthur," Reverend Swanson folded his hands together. "I was only told to keep an eye out while Dutch and Mister Matthews are running errands." 

_An eye out for what?_ Arthur thought, annoyed. 

"Errands?" Arthur asked. 

"They're heading into Rhodes to find more about those two families," he said. "There may be some gold in the mix." 

Arthur gave him a thumb and started making his way over to the hitching posts. 

"Where are you headed, then?" Reverend Swanson rushed out. 

_Ah, an eye out for me._ Arthur huffed. _That's rich._

"Just headin' out for a wash, not too far," Arthur reassured. "I'll be back within the hour." 

That seemed to satisfy the Reverend. 

Arthur approached his horse, where Kieran was busy brushing the coat of a golden Belgian while hushing Miss Grimshaw's antsy Appaloosa. 

He jumped up to attention when Arthur reached to unhitch Baby Bubba. 

"Oh, uh, Arthur!" He greeted, his voice wavering. "H-how are . . . where are you headed?" 

The simple question brought about a flash of fury in him. 

_Leave him alone, he ain't do a damn thing to you_. Arthur clenched his fists, trying to swallow down his anger. 

"None of your business, _O'Driscoll_ ," Arthur spat. 

Kieran's face fell instantly. 

_You ass._

"I ain't an O'Driscoll! You-" Kieran stumbled over his words, heat rising in his face. "You know I ain't." 

Arthur blinked at him, guilt sinking in the instant he opened his mouth. 

He had grown from the habit of snarling _"O'Driscoll"_ alongside a slew of other insults at Kieran. The young man was no more harmful than jackrabbit, yet the jab slipped out so suddenly — so full of menace. 

Arthur couldn't pinpoint why he blew up on him so quickly; Kieran didn't mean any harm, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to apologize. 

"Look, I . . . I'm sorry, Arthur." Kieran looked over his shoulders, wringing his hands together. "I didn't mean nothin' by it."

_I know, dammit_ , Arthur thought. 

"I just didn't wanna sit by and say nothin'. I-" Kieran clamped his mouth shut, and shook his head abruptly. "Forget it, I'll mind my business from now on." 

Part of Arthur wanted to thank him for cleaning what was left of the mess in his saddle, but another part of Arthur wanted to shove him flat on his ass and start hollering. 

"You best keep it that way." Arthur shoved a finger into Kieran's chest, making him flinch. 

"Yessir," Kieran muttered coldly, and turned on his heels to face the horses. 

Kieran didn't do anything wrong, yet Arthur impulsively threw out the _one thing_ that made the poor kid shake in his boots — one mention of the previous gang he ran with and Kieran would go silent for a whole day, not bothering to look up from the chores he busied himself with. 

Arthur shoved his change of clothes in with the elk coat he had stowed, and pulled himself up on his saddle. 

He gave the reins a pull, and Baby Bubba huffed in response, turning towards the trail, and picking up his pace. 

_You oughta tell him sorry later_. 

Arthur originally thought letting the icy game thaw against the back of his head for more than half the day had helped; the cool calmed the swelling and seemed to help him think clearer. But he began to have second guesses after blowing up at Kieran. 

Sure, Arthur was more than ticked off that he told the girls about his saddle; he was trying to keep a low profile and avoid making a big deal about everything, and Kieran was preventing him from doing so easily. 

But he didn't deserve to be snapped at. 

The moment Kieran flinched away from him, Arthur's breath caught in his throat, but he couldn't even get the scowl to fall from his face or manage to utter a half-assed apology. 

Bubba continued trotting along, content as can be, while Arthur ran around in circles inside his own head. 

"Hey, Arthur!" 

Arthur shot a look at John, who was standing guard at the edge of their camp's limits. 

"I missed ya this mornin', but I meant to ask," John stepped closer to Arthur's horse, letting his gun rest at his side. "The hell happened earlier?" 

"Don't let that barrel drop." Arthur shook his head at him. "Gettin' yourself distracted, huh? You want an ambush on your hands, John?" 

A blush colored John's face. "Hey, I been starin' at the damn treeline for movement all day. It'll only be a second." 

"It only takes a second," Arthur bristled. 

Arthur ground his teeth together. _Jesus, just leave me be for a moment._

"Fine." John repositioned himself and focused his eyes on the land in front of him. "But you ain't answered my question yet." 

"Yeah, m'alright." Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "Got bucked, is all." 

"You got bucked?" John turned back to Arthur, his mouth dropping open. "By _Bubba?"_

"Eyes forward," Arthur snapped, sending Baby Bubba a signal to get a move on. "It was my own damn fault, anyways." 

As Arthur pulled forward, he felt John's eyes on his back. "I'll be okay, though, so don't you get your tits in a twist." 

"I ain't gonna do no such thing," John grumbled as Arthur left him in the dust of Baby Bubba's tracks. 

Arthur continued along the trails and crossed into the main road, sun now able to shine down on him and make him sweat. 

Only a few minutes into riding, the slight bounce of Bubba's stride made his head feel heavy. Arthur patted his side, alerting him to ease up. His horse slowed at moment's notice and Arthur leaned into him, head lolling to the side as he lazily watched the green blur alongside them. 

Arthur headed towards the southern side of Flat Iron Lake, opposite to the end that lapped against the ground at Clemens Point. Arthur had originally planned on a peaceful trek into Rhodes for a bath, as he had done plenty times before in Valentine and Strawberry. 

The women who offered their bathing services in towns were always kind — their hands were soft and their voices warm. Most times he went, he accepted their offers and closed his eyes as they massaged his head with soap, being mindful to keep it out of his eyes. 

Sometimes he would imagine it was his mother — and remember leaning into her touch as a boy, listening to her hum soft tunes while she bathed him. 

He sighed, scratching the back of his neck. 

Before he blew up at Kieran, that was his plan. 

He quickly re-evaluated it, wondering if he truly wanted to be around anyone. He was already on edge around the gang; Arthur didn't want to risk hollering at strangers in a town he was an acting sheriff. 

And if he went into town, it was guaranteed he would get some questions — well deserved, too. The more he thought about straying that far from camp, and heading into the thick of the town's busy crowds, the more his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Rhodes wasn't anything like Valentine, or Blackwater, or Saint-Denis. It was a simple, country town — but the less folks around, the better Arthur would feel. 

He felt more comfortable by himself — out in the open, but hidden at the same time. He wasn't worried about being exposed or running into anyone at the lake; the corner he was heading to was usually unpopulated due to the lack of good fish that gathered there. 

Arthur quickly shifted the reins to his left and cut off the path at the sight of two men on horseback, further up the road. Bubba snuffed and shook his head against the brush, pushing through to the clearing. 

"Alright, boy." 

Baby Bubba slowed to a stop, and scuffled his hooves against the gravelly beach. Arthur rubbed his side as he snuck him an oatcake from his satchel. 

Arthur looked around once more before stripping down until he was barren, and hurried into the water. He ducked his head into the water, running his hands over his scalp, scraping away the layer of oils from the meat he iced his head with. He scrubbed at his face and his neck, then at his arms and chest. With his shirt off, bathed in the afternoon light, Arthur could clearly see some of his injuries as washed himself: the skin around his wrists were rubbed raw. 

Thin, slivers of skin lifted around his wrists from trying to pull himself loose. His left thumb was swollen, too — a red, near purple ring formed around its base as it formed into a bruise. Arthur's ankles burned and ached in the same way his arms did. He figured he would have to wear long sleeves and avoid high corduroys or gurkha pants for a while, no matter how hot and humid it got. 

Arthur splashed water over his shoulders, and attempted to stretch and see his back. He couldn't see much from the strained angle, but he got a quick glimpse of jagged red marks and dark bruises in the shape of knuckles. 

Arthur shuddered, wondering what the bruise on the back of his head looked like — Hosea didn't do a good job of hiding the worry in his eyes when he caught a glimpse of it. 

He was grateful he didn't go into town. What the hell would someone say if they saw him? What would they think? 

Arthur started contemplating his original decision to head back to camp. 

His first thought upon waking was to rush to the comfort of his bed — to be around his family — but once he arrived, he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone what had happened. His whole body and mind rejected the thought of uttering a word of what happened the night before; he could barely admit what happened to himself. 

He wondered if it would have been easier to camp out and hunt some game until he healed up — that way, he wouldn't have to worry about keeping up appearances. 

The cracking of a branch snapped him from his thoughts. Arthur jerked and dug his toes in the sand, searching the for the source of rustling bushes in the treeline, where Bubba stood. His horse wasn't spooked, so Arthur knew, he shouldn't be — but a lump formed in his throat. 

Baby Bubba whooped as a skunk shot between his legs, and scattered through weeds as it crossed the beach. 

_Christ, Morgan._ Arthur forced his muscles to unclench, taking in a sharp breath. _Get ahold of yourself._

Arthur's throat burned, emotion welling up in him. 

The more he tried to forget about everything and continue throughout his day, the more it bothered him. 

A pit spread in his gut, and he deeply regretted not killing Sonny. He knew he should have, but he couldn't bring himself to — that was the part that angered Arthur the most. 

That man had likely done that to other folks; he would have done it before and would continue after. Arthur knew he wasn't some unlucky bastard who mosied into the wrong place at the wrong time; Sonny was searching for someone — _anyone_ , like a predator searches out its prey.

One of the many things Dutch told Arthur, that he had never forgotten, was that men like Sonny never change — and they were _everywhere_. 

_The closer you get to the city, further into the filth of civilization, the more dangerous it is._ Dutch told him, staring Arthur down. _The countryside is just as plentiful, but the city? All the more easier it is to get dragged off somewhere._

Arthur sank down further into the water — blowing bubbles at the lake's surface, and feeling dazed as he remembered their conversation. 

_The cities are filled with papists and rapists, Arthur! Both just as eager to get ahold of you._ Hosea had shook his head at Dutch, praying he would step down from his soapbox and shut his mouth. _There's bastards everywhere, and you know it, Hosea! People are too busy pissin' and shittin' in the streets to notice if you go missing for an hour. Before you know it, you've been knocked out, knocked up, and you can't find your damn trousers!_

_Dutch, don't you get him worked up about things he needn't worry himself about right now_ , Hosea scolded, resting a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. _He's a boy._

Arthur swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. 

_Why did you go in that damn cabin?_

Dutch looked Hosea straight in the face, a steely glare filling out his features, frustrated the man wasn't listening as intently as Arthur. _Sick bastards like that start and they never stop-_

_Dutch, drop it._

_-Not once they've gotten a taste for it._

_Dutch, I ain't kidding around._ Hosea growled at him, fists clenched. 

Dutch stood abruptly, _Neither am I, Hosea!_ He hollered, his voice and hands shaking. _Keep goin' around pretendin' like the world is all golden and shiney. See what happens!_

_Fuck you._ Hosea spat at him, and stormed off. 

_It's better to be safe than sorry, Arthur._ Dutch left him, crouched at the grave Susan shoved some low-life in the day before, to follow after Hosea. 

Arthur shivered, the water growing colder by the minute. It wasn't like Arthur didn't take Dutch seriously — he just never expected anything of the sort to happen to him. They told him. They _told_ him. 

_The hell would they say if they found out?_ Arthur's head pounded. 

He imagined Dutch's voice: deep, grating, and disappointed — _You shoulda known better, Arthur_.

Hosea's voice: sad, and soft — _What were you thinking?_

If some bastard don't seem right in the head, walk away. 

Keep your gun holstered, but prepare to draw. 

Don't turn your back on strangers. 

_Why did you go into that God damned cabin?_

Don't turn your back on strangers . . . don't turn you back _on strangers_. 

_Don't turn your back, don't turn your back, don't—_

_Never_ turn your back on strangers. 

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_ Arthur raked his hands down his face, dragging along his skin. 

His thoughts stumbled into one another and he started feeling nausea creep back into his body. 

_Had Sonny done this to other men?_ Arthur wondered. _Or women?_

Arthur stared at the ripples in the lake, desperately trying to think of something else, but his mind was speeding away from him like a startled Stallion. 

_You coulda took that bastard out for good_ , Arthur scrubbed at himself, his frustration and nerves causing his body to tremble. _Yet you ran away like a boy._

Arthur choked on his own spit as a thought struck him — _were there boys he did that to?_

_Children?_

Arthur felt sick. 

He had scrubbed himself raw, shaking like a leaf by the time he managed to get a handle on his thoughts. 

Arthur waded through the water and wrapped his arms around himself, the warm wind of the late afternoon feeling surprisingly chilly. He dried himself off, then struggled to shove the padded bandage Tilly gave him into the seat of his pants. 

He redressed and hobbled around, groaning as he felt bulky rag shift in his undershorts. It was much more preferable than ruining his garments, one after another, but it was far from being comfortable. 

Arthur ran his hands through his long hair, and wrung water from its ends. 

He hoisted himself up into Bubba's saddle.

"Yip, yip." His voice hoarse, "C'mon, boy." 

Arthur made his way back to Clemens Point with ease, but he couldn't get himself to stop looking over his shoulder. 

  


* * *

Hosea ground fennel root into thin slices, and squeezed the liquid from its middle into a pot, where he had tea leaves steeping. He moved quick and methodically, occasionally casting a glance across camp at Arthur. He had been on edge since he was rustled awake by Tilly early that morning. 

It was a miracle Dutch convinced him to leave. 

Hosea trusted Reverend Swanson with his life, and with Arthur's — only when sober, of course — but he was reluctant to leave his side. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

Something definitely _was_ , he just couldn't figure out what. 

Dutch reached a conclusion as soon as he rushed into his tent, Hosea following close behind. He took Arthur's reluctance to talk at face value, and determined he was being dishonest. 

_Is he lying?_ Dutch asked aloud, then without a second beat he snapped, _He's lying._

Hosea talked Dutch down, convinced that the jumbled pieces of his story were a result of him hitting his head, and that things would clear up soon. 

_Dutch, you've known him for over twenty years — when Arthur lies, it's for good reason._ Hosea steadied Dutch's shoulders and held him still until his eyes focused on him. _And we don't know if he's lying, for all we know — he's scrambled after a knock to the head! Give him a break, dear._

That eased Dutch's paranoia, but it increased Hosea's worries. 

He feared Arthur may have hit his head a little too hard, and _that_ was the reason behind the confusing, disjointed story — that Arthur was remembering it wrong. The story didn't make much sense when compared with the injuries visible to the eyes. 

_Are there more injuries?_ Hosea wondered, staring into the golden flame under his pot as the gold of the day faded around him. 

Head injuries scared Hosea; and if Arthur had jarred himself a little too much— 

Hosea tried to shove down the thought of him and Bessie's old neighbors, and dear friends, but Hamish Sinclair's wife weasled her way back into his brain. 

Mrs. Sinclair got a nasty beating to her head when she fell from her horse and got trampled as it ran past her. 

_Poor Emma-Louise_. She never uttered a word again; began wetting herself and only ever made a peep when she'd cry. 

Both Hosea and his wife stayed with Hamish and Emma-Louise after she got hurt, trying to help out as much as they could. Hamish lost a limb in the war and couldn't carry her to the bath when she needed a wash. Bessie would brush her dark hair back and wipe her down in the tub, telling her stories in a sweet whisper. Hosea held Hamish tight on the nights he was overwhelmed with grief. 

They did what they could with what they had. 

Emma-Louise passed in her sleep not but a month after. 

Hosea frowned, and tilted the pot back and forth, letting the liquid simmer. 

If Arthur was telling the truth — odd and misplaced as it seemed — then, he would likely be fine. It was just the thought that a simple knock on the head could turn a man into a completely different person. 

Hosea poured the tea into a mug and blew on it. He achieved some peace of mind at the thought that his boy was already better off than his neighbor — Arthur managed to make it home by himself, and he still knew his name. 

Hosea stood, his back cracking as he stretched, and made his way over to Arthur's tent. 

Arthur was hunched over, his splintered red cedar pen hovering above a blank page in his journal. 

Hosea watched him for a moment, waiting to see if he started sketching — the way Arthur worked that shoddy, little sliver of graphite never ceased to amazing him. But it didn't budge, and neither did Arthur. 

_Perhaps another day, then._ Hosea thought, reminiscing on the last time Arthur allowed him to sit down with him — their backs pressed up against a tree, shoulder to shoulder, as Hosea would watch him scribble. 

Hosea cleared his throat, and greeted him, "Arthur." 

Arthur's head shot up and he shut his journal quickly, before rising to his feet. "Hosea." 

Hosea blew against the steam rising from the mug, and situated himself in the chair Dutch had pulled over earlier in the morning. 

"Sure," Arthur said, and put his hands on his hips, "go ahead an' make yourself comfortable." 

_Thank you, I will._

Hosea's lips turned up at the corners. "Don't get smart with me." 

"You know I ain't too skilled in that department," Arthur snorted. "I wouldn't dare." 

Hosea let out a wheezy guffaw, and whacked himself in the chest a few times, trying to settle his spasming lungs. 

He quickly caught his breath and smiled up at Arthur. "Go on, sit down." 

Hosea rolled his wrist, whirling the tea around in the mug to cool it faster. He watched Arthur as he sat down slowly, bent at an odd angle. 

_Is his gait alright?_ Hosea eyed him, looking for any signs of altered movement or unsteadiness. 

"What're you, uh, up to?" Arthur asked, his eyes shifty. "Need somethin'?" 

"Am I botherin' you?" Hosea asked, perfectly content to be sitting in his spot. 

Arthur grumbled at him, "I didn't say nothin' like that-" 

"No, I know . . . I know." Hosea said, softening the teasing tone of his voice. He leaned forward, handing Arthur the mug, "Here." 

"I can get my own dri-" 

"I made it for you, Arthur." Hosea held his hand out expectantly, but Arthur continued to search Hosea's face. "I didn't spit in it, if that's what you're worryin' about." 

Arthur scoffed at him and took the mug. 

Hosea watched Arthur's hands for tremors. 

_None_ , Hosea pursed his lips. _Maybe he really is fine_. 

Arthur took a whiff and scrunched up his nose. "What is it?" 

"Fennel and lemon," Hosea said, crossing his legs and leaning back into the chair, "a few drops of honey, too." 

Arthur stared blankly at him. 

"Tea, Arthur! Good God, it's tea!" Hosea chuckled, shaking his head. "It'll help knock out the nausea." 

"Mmhm," he mumbled, "thank you." 

Arthur hummed into the mug — the steam causing the tip of his nose to grow damp — breathing in the sweet, earthy scent of black tea leaves and roots as he took a sip. 

"Good?" 

"Yeah." 

"Have you had much to eat today, Arthur?" Hosea asked. 

"Oh, c'mon, Hosea. What're you motherin' me for?" Arthur groaned. 

"Can't I care for my boy?" Hosea crossed his arms. "Or are you gonna continue to bite the hand that feeds you?" 

"I ain't bitin' you yet," Arthur said, his eyebrows quirking up, "but I could-" 

"I'd rather you refrain from biting anyone, Arthur." 

"Fine." Arthur huffed out a disappointed sigh as he played along with Hosea, but Hosea could tell Arthur was exhausted. 

Overworked and exhausted. 

_On edge?_

Hosea originally sat down with Arthur, not only to bring him tea but, to ask him some questions — push a little more, but not too much. He didn't want to invade his boy's privacy, Hosea just wanted to make sure he was okay. 

Arthur just didn't seem to be acting like himself; he was testy and hot-tempered, but never flighty or seemingly wracked with nerves. Hosea could see something was wrong in the way Arthur held himself, but he didn't want to pry. 

_He hit his head, for Christ's sake. He could just be tired_ , Hosea reminded himself. _Stop actin' like a dog with her tail down._

Even the moment of silent they were sharing felt strained. Usually those moments of calm quiet were moments of comfort — of reflection, solidarity, and _trust_ — where they would simply exist in each other's presence, just learning to be. 

Yet, as they sat quietly, Arthur's silence was strained. Hosea could sense tension washing over him. 

"Arthur?" 

"Hm?" Arthur jumped at the sound of his voice, looking to Hosea, then side to side, searching — for what — Hosea didn't know. 

"You sure you're feelin' alright?" 

"Yeah, m'just tired." Arthur gave him a weak smile. 

Hosea returned it, and got to his feet. "Okay, Arthur. I'll leave you to it, then." 

"G'night, 'sea."

"Sweet dreams, my boy." Hosea planted a light kiss on Arthur's forehead. 

_He'll get to feelin' better soon._ Hosea reassured himself, as he stalked back to his own tent for the night. _Don't you get your tits in a twist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed the bit I included about Arthur having, honest to God, _NO CLUE_ what the fuck a pad was. Tilly was a dear, but Arthur was like, "hmm, this a weird fuckin' bandage, but fair enough!" He's a himbo and I love him. I also hope y'all enjoyed the similarity in usage of phrases that Hosea and Arthur share — I am sure, as Arthur grew up with Dutch and Hosea, Arthur had a number of odd phrases integrated into his vocabulary. I wanted to show a little bit of that in this fic, just to add onto how much they take after each other.
> 
> Thank you for reading! *Next chapter is in progress, feel free to let me know what you think so far.
> 
> *Prepare for a bit of a time jump (probably no more than a week's time, reflecting on Arthur's time recovering from his concussion).
> 
> Progression:  
>  **1\. Nightmare at Sundown**  
>  **2\. Drifting Away at Dusk**  
>  **3\. Just a Bump**  
>  **4\. Tea for Your Troubles**  
>  5\. At a Standstill  
> 


	5. At a Standstill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a week of unnegotiable bed rest blurs past him, Arthur gets stuck in his head; he's antsy to get out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty tame, but it still has heavy aspects involved.
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of **general violence** in section I, both **past child and spousal abuse** in section I, followed by a **government-sanctioned hanging** in section I, issues with **disordered eating/struggles with eating** in section I, symptoms of **moderate dissociation** and **anxiety** mainly in section I, mention of struggles with **drug addiction** (regarding Swanson) in section I, as well as mentions a **non-graphic child (toddler) death** in section I.
> 
> The extra warnings are for experiences throughout Arthur's life that he's reflecting on — a.k.a. his father and Ma (followed by their deaths), the death of Eliza and his son, etc; they aren't super graphic or long, but they are still there. Proceed with caution, as always.
> 
> EDIT: I decided to go throughout the chapters and update the notes (regarding trigger warnings/content warnings) to be more specific and easy to see, i.e. bold them. Hope that helps!

A silver puff of smoke with a hard edge slipped into the thick of the dark. The thin, quickly dissipating cloud nudged at Arthur. 

It slithered around his forearm and soothed the goosebumps littering his skin. Its warm weight settled on his chest, and — _stung?_ — him when it winded up his neck to rest on his face. 

No — it didn’t sting. The sensation was not dry or harsh; it was subtle and . . . wet? 

_It spit on him!_ Arthur's sleep-addled brain insisted. 

No, that wasn’t right either — it couldn’t have spat on him; it was calm. It wound him up in — no, stripped his blankets from him. 

_Huh-_

“Arthur,” it called to him. 

_I'd rather you come again later._

The smoke had hair; it had hands. 

The voice rumbled again, “Arthur.” 

It was quiet, but gravelly — reverberating through his head as Arthur came to — soft, but bold. The darkness grew grey, pale silver, then white. 

“Arthur!” 

“Huh!” 

Arthur had to blink a few times before his vision fully cleared. Hosea hovered over him, a damp rag in hand, wiping at his face. 

“You were mumblin’, Arthur.” Hosea brushed the cool fabric along Arthur’s brow and down his jawline. 

“Yeah, I was,” Arthur grunted, swatting Hosea’s hand back. “‘cause I was sleepin’!” 

Hosea pulled the rag away and leaned back on his heels, perched right beside Arthur’s cot. “Sweatin’ too.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s hot.” Arthur pushed himself up, his sturdy cotton shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. 

“Then, what the hell you wearin’ all those clothes for?” Hosea asked, gesturing to Arthur’s late fall nightclothes. 

“I can wear what I damn well please.” Arthur shot Hosea a nasty look. 

The mild frustration wrinkling Hosea’s face quickly softened into a look of concern. “You alright?” 

_Great_ , Arthur thought upon taking in Hosea’s expression, _he thinks I’ve taken ill._

“I ain’t sick, I ain’t got anything wrong with me, Hosea.” Arthur rubbed his face, “I’ll be perfectly fine as long as you stop clucking around my bed like a warblin’ hen!” 

“It’s noon, Arthur,” Hosea grumbled, struggling to force his aching knees to unhinge, and rose to his feet. “ _Forgive_ me if I worry.” 

“Noon?” The shock lasted a moment before guilt trickled into Arthur’s system. He didn’t even stay up late the night before, yet Arthur felt like he barely slept a wink. “Damn, Hosea . . . I’m sorry-” 

“Oh, _quit_. You’re still on bedrest, anyways,” Hosea said, frowning. “I know you’re catching every spare hour you can get, but ever since that knock on your head — you sleepin' late got me-" 

Hosea stopped himself short and put his hands on his hips. 

“Worried?” Arthur asked.

_Don't be._

“I ain’t sayin’ it twice.” Hosea said. 

_Nothin' is wrong._

"Agh, I'm fine, Hosea," Arthur huffed, cracking his neck. 

It popped like distant gunshots, each shot loosening the tension that settled there during the night — Hosea winced with each one. 

“Good grief, your neck sounds like my knees.” 

“Nah, your knees sound worse," Arthur retorted. 

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Hosea chuckled. 

"I jus' slept a little funny, is all." Arthur sighed, observing the man's hard stare. "I usually ain't this stiff." 

"You don't gotta prove nothin' to me, Arthur," Hosea said. "You're still gettin' back on your feet." 

Arthur hummed a response, rubbing the sleeping grit from the corners of his eyes. 

"So . . . your head's feelin' okay, then?" Hosea asked, thumbing his pockets as he hovered. 

“Yeah, better,” Arthur assured him. “No more than a little ache, now.” 

Barely over a week later, Arthur's head no longer felt like it would topple from his shoulders; the invisible blunt object that tried batting his head off his neck at every move had stilled. 

Besides moments where he moved too fast, or his heart sped up — Arthur barely felt the throbbing at the base of his neck. The pounding of his head faded to a dull ache, the constant nausea to an occasional sour stomach, and the disorientation to a light haze.

"Good! Good . . . I'm glad to hear it," Hosea said, his face softening, before pointing to the lopsided table next to Arthur's cot, “Anyways, you missed breakfast by a long shot — Mary-Beth brought some over for ya.” 

“Alright, I’ll have to tell her I said thank you, then.” 

“You will.” Hosea smiled. 

“If that’s all, I might as well have some food — if you can call it that,” Arthur laughed. 

"Sounds good," Hosea said with snort. He clasped his hands together and turned to take care of whatever business needed taking care of. He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be around.” 

“Okay, then.” Arthur yawned, watching Hosea lumber off further into camp, his eyes still feeling droopy. 

_Noon_ , he thought, _damn._

Arthur stretched, his stiff muscles felt like barely worn leather — pulling back at him when he tried easing the knots from his back. He finally got around to picking at his breakfast way past lunch. 

He grabbed his chilled meal, shooing away a greedy fly, and situated it in his lap. 

Before he suffered through his first bite, Arthur noticed there was something folded up under his breakfast platter — the slight breeze tugging at its edges. 

He reached for the paper, finding a scribbled drawing — of what, Arthur couldn't make out — accompanied by Mary-Beth's handwriting below: 

_Feel better, Uncle Arthur._

_~ **Jack**_

Arthur smiled, tracing his thumb along the crooked lines and half-shaded shapes. A warm feeling secured his chest as he admired Jack's drawing. 

_The boy is an artist in the making_. Arthur grinned. _Thank the Lord he doesn't take after his father_. 

John couldn't draw a damn thing, much less think of something original; even when John tried tracing pictures from Arthur's journal as a boy, he never even came close to a poor imitation of Arthur's sketches. 

A smile tugged at Arthur's face as he remembered John's attempt at drawing Dutch — the poorly drawn sketch that fourteen year-old John gifted him, his face lit up with pride. 

_Beautiful, my son!_ Dutch beamed. _What is it? A . . . a buffalo? It's a buffalo, isn't it!_

The drawing brought about a heated conversation that resulted in both Dutch and John — red as cherries, Hosea, Tilly, and Arthur keeled over in laughter, and Miss Grimshaw rolling her eyes. 

The warmth in his chest from the fond memory and Jack's gift was quickly shadowed by a pang of guilt, and Arthur's grin morphed into a grimace. 

_C'mon, Morgan_ , Arthur thought, _you're worryin' the kid_. 

It was only a bash on the head. 

He should have been as good as new by now. 

_You fell_ , Arthur thought, dully. _You're supposed to get back up — not lie around all day long_. 

Arthur pushed the food around on his plater, a sour taste already forming in his mouth. 

The only thing Arthur took in eagerly throughout the week were the fresh batches of Hosea's tea — odd aftertaste or not, the drink settled his stomach and eased the waves that rocked his brain like a boat lost at sea. Even if Pearson's meals, including the one he was nibbling at, were appetizing, Arthur wasn't sure if he would have been able to convince himself to finish them. 

Arthur shovelled a spoonful of soggy, weakly seasoned potatoes in his mouth. 

_Should be grateful_. 

Arthur was feeling better; he was sore, aching, and a walking headache, but he had stopped bleeding. 

Arthur only used two of the three bandages Tilly lended him. He should be grateful for clean sheets and unstained garments — grateful for needing only _one_ wash a day, rather than three. 

Once he stopped bleeding, Arthur felt much cleaner — though, he found it was hard to fight the urge to head down to the lake. 

Arthur continued to convince himself he had grown into a new routine — a routine Miss Grimshaw deeply appreciated — of being more mindful of his hygiene, but he really was just struggling to shake the feeling that he was filthy. 

No matter how much he washed — even more than once a day, _after_ the bleeding had stopped — Arthur still felt like he was covered in grime. He figured the bizarre feeling would lessen after he started healing up and stopped bleeding all over himself, which _it did_ , but not entirely. 

That feeling did not vanish; it lingered like a rancid aftertaste from one of Pearson's poorer meals. 

_All you did was fall. You only got bucked_ , Arthur reminded himself. _It was your own damn fault_. 

Arthur swallowed another bite of his late breakfast, suppressing a gag as it slithered down his throat. 

He thought back to the strange, few moments he experienced before waking — floating around in a void, smokey sounds pulling his body into the daylight. 

Thinking back, that short sequence was the closest thing to a dream Arthur could recall from the past week; and the times he went without dreaming were minimal. 

The tang of the metal spoon steadied him, and it dawned upon Arthur how disconnected he felt. He always was one for daydreaming as a young boy, and well into his early adult years — but this feeling was different. It was either Arthur had been in a constant dream for a solid six days, halfway onto a seventh, or functioning without them completely. 

Arthur twisted the cap of his canteen open and relished in the way it sloshed down his throat; the cool, hard feeling that swam in his chest as he swallowed it brought him some peace of mind. 

Everything just felt _odd_. 

It was more than a daydream. 

Arthur ached for a convincingly solid night's sleep; he ached for the comfort of a dream wading into his mind and dousing his brain. 

He wanted something calm and soothing, a sharp contrast to the harsh and agitating environment surrounding him — the harsh and agitating feelings, _brewing_ and _bubbling_ up inside of him. 

Arthur often dreamed about getting lost in the thick of forests at twilight — stumbling through sticky webs and tripping through burrows, apologizing to the tenants as his bulky, lumbering self ran right through them — only able to find a way through the brush at the first gleam of early morning light. 

Dreams where his clothes soaked through with rain as the rocky cliff sides grew too slick to travel on; he would search for a cave to take cover in until the storm passed, struggling to lead a horse he didn't recognize along the mountain without slipping. He would sometimes wake with a shiver, completely dry other than the sweat cooling on the back of his neck. 

Arthur usually got more rest in his dreams than he did in his day-to-day life. His peace of mind resided in a cool, summer spring that he dipped his feet in — a mix of memories and his imagination. He would lean back and watch buck sneak alongside the treeline, their watchful eyes: big, brown, and knowing — staring out at him as Arthur stared back. 

Sometimes those dreams felt so real; he would hunker down, approach the buck real slow, and reach out — yearning to brush his hand against their silky coats. The buck would almost smile at Arthur, a glint in the animal's eyes, just before turning away and out of his reach. 

Arthur would return to the spring, disappointed the buck set out on its way, and slump down with a huff. 

Arthur took another sip of water from his canteen, letting the dream play out in his waking state. 

Time passed as he crouched by the spring; his breath would change as the temperature rapidly dropped around him — the sun would change colors from a warm gold to a cool silver in the shades of winterous illusion. 

The spring would freeze over before Arthur could throw on a warm fur, and snow would sprinkle around him. He would lay down, back flat against the frosted grass, watching snow fall around him — light against the dark pines, but dark like ash against the pale sky. 

If Arthur focused enough, sometimes he could feel the water swishing between his toes in the spring, and smell the frozen afternoon as it stung his nose through his dream. If he could have gotten close enough, Arthur was sure he would have been able to feel the buck, too. 

Movement flashed in front of Arthur's eyes, pulling him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see John walking past his tent. 

John called out to him, "Gonna get to it?" 

"I'll be up an' about, soon," Arthur said. 

"Alright, Arthur." John seemed unconvinced. 

Arthur fought down another bite of his breakfast, glaring at John's back as he walked off. 

Sometimes Arthur would dream of John, but much younger. He would dream of John's greasy, twelve year-old self — kicking and biting as he came — stealing Arthur's hat, stealing tattered pages from Arthur's journal, stealing Arthur's stash of jelly beans, stealing all of Dutch's praise. 

He would dream of Hosea and Dutch, back when they were young and clean-shaven, leaning into each other as they told Arthur stories around their campfire for three; followed by dreams of Susan Grimshaw's arrival — her arms linked with Dutch as she strutted into camp with a shout and a smack like she owned the place. 

He dreamed of Bessie, and the day Hosea led her into camp; her shining strawberry ringlets bouncing with her laughter as she attempted to teach Arthur how to play dominoes. He dreamed of her warm, rosy face that freckled under the sun, and how she glowed on evenings Hosea leaned in for her to brush beeswax along his pale eyelashes, blush on his cheeks, and douse him in tinted gloss and powders — how her thin fingers rustled his hair up as he laughed and kissed her on the cheek. He would dream of her — almost an extension of his own mother. 

Arthur rarely dreamed of Annabelle, but when he did — it was of her wide brown eyes, peering into his own as she spouted out big ideas and talked of the future. Annabelle's deep, warm voice lifting him up on cold mornings and singing during the summer evenings as she jumped around camp, electricity radiating from her like lightning from a cloud. 

He dreamed of sprinkling rain without thunder, of his old steed: Boadicea and her soft eyes smiling at him, of spring blossoms along creek beds, of crickets in the summer, of crackling campfires — he dreamed of good times. 

Those dreams made Arthur feel safe. It was like being wrapped in a blanket of cool thoughts after a day of hard work. 

Arthur looked down at his platter, less than a third through, and wondered if he would be able to finish it off. 

He took another bite, and washed it down with a swig of water. 

Arthur's brain spun its wheels in reverse as his train of thought changed. 

He thought of dreams that were less than pleasant — dreams that took his breath away, leading him to feel more like he had been smothered upon waking. 

He would dream of his mother: blurry glimpses of her smiling at him as wispy brown hair fell around her kind face, and sharp edged sights of her shrinking away from a first. He would dream of the old, despicable Lyle Morgan; and how the man's hollers sunk into the wooden planks of their cabin as they rotted Arthur and his Ma from the inside out. 

Arthur shifted on his cot, feeling a prick of anxiety tickle the back of his neck. 

He would dream of when Lyle died: he cried through the cloth gaggin him, trying to jerk away from the lawmen leading him up to the gallows — reliving the moment Arthur watched the hanging from the crowd as if he was just another spectator. 

Every time Arthur would dream of him, he would wake choking on his own breath the moment they opened the hatch; it was no different than when he would wake from looking upon his Ma as she inhaled her last, wavering breath. 

On mornings like those, Arthur would wake up irritated — snapping at anyone who bothered to ask him how he was. He knew his father didn't deserve a second of his thoughts, yet the man continued to occupy them — bringing about the same suffocating fear that consumed him when he dreamt about his mother. 

On darker nights, Arthur dreamed of Eliza; her dark coily hair, olive skin, and green eyes — her eyes wide with fear, her eyes soft with adoration, and her eyes tired with strain as she stared down at their son, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, when her and Arthur were no more than kids, themselves. 

They always started off comforting . . . _deceiving_. 

Eliza running into Arthur's arms every time he would visit, with Isaac babbling and drooling as he clung to her chest. 

_Isaac_. 

His round, pudgy face framed by his mother's dark curls. Isaac's eyes — big, blue, and wondering — a reflection of his own, staring at Arthur as he pulled at his whiskers with stubby fingers. 

How Dutch swooped in to pick Isaac up and litter him with kisses, with Hosea at Dutch's side, cooing to the boy. Dutch spinning Eliza around with glee as if she were his very own daughter, and Hosea, whispering in Arthur's ear: _you'll make a good father, my boy_. 

A _good_ father — blowing raspberries on Isaac's cheeks and pulling at his chubby toes — with Eliza, a lovely girl at his side, rubbing her soft hands along his forearm as she asked how the gang was, giving him a peck on the cheek before he left. 

Arthur's mouth felt dry, grating painfully as he swallowed. He unscrewed the cap to his canteen, again, fingers fumbling with the cap. 

_Get a grip_ , Arthur thought, frustration and nerves building up in his chest. 

His vision in the dream would flicker and tunnel, shifting to Arthur's hands . . . his hands, empty, and his chest, hollow — dirt caked in his nails as he dug desperately at the ground where two, unmarked crosses rested outside Eliza's residence. Sounds, echoing through his dream, that Arthur could barely recognize as himself — wails escaping him as his elderly neighbor cried for him to stop digging, the woman's hands holding Arthur's shaking shoulders. 

Bessie, stiff and unmoving; and Hosea, drunkenly stumbling 

Annabelle — _scalped_ — blood trickling down her face as she was cradled in Dutch's arms, and Dutch, on his knees _screaming_. 

Mac, dead . . . then, Davey, Jenny, and — _Colm_. 

_Colm?_

Dreams of Colm's sick sneer in his ear — tone eerily similar to the one _someone_ took with him. 

Arthur shivered, and quickly shook the rising thought away. 

The punches Colm threw, full of hate, but somehow tinged with lust. 

Pain searing in his shoulder, his head throbbing as he was strung upside down, the blood rushing in his ears and heat of the fever setting in — the _fear_ that no one would come. 

The fear that _no one_ would come to get him. 

Arthur set his cold, unfinished breakfast down on his table with a clatter and shuddered. 

_It ain't gonna do anyone any good to sit around like this_. Arthur scratched at his beard, fingers twitching. _Get outta your damn head_. 

Arthur was almost tempted to lay back down. His racing thoughts quickly wore him out, but the guilt of sleeping too long and not taking any jobs all week kept him upright. He needed to make himself useful. 

"Sleepin' the day away, huh, cowpoke?" A nasally voice blurted. 

Arthur looked up to see Micah sauntering past his tent with his chest sticking out. 

The man didn't deserve his time; he didn't deserve his attention — which is _all_ Micah wanted — so, Arthur didn't bother answering. He was too tired to bother arguing with Micah anyways. 

At Arthur's submission, a nasty grin worked its way onto Micah's face. "You gotta start pullin' your weight, Morgan." 

Arthur couldn't find it in himself to care too much. 

He pushed himself off his cot and yanked down his tent flap with a smack, Micah's raspy laugh lingering in Arthur's ears a few moments after he walked away. 

He slowly changed from his nightclothes into something fresh, long, and fit for daytime — eager for raw, scabbed marks and yellowing bruises on his forearms to fade. He was tired of being _just slightly_ overheated. 

Arthur shook his head at himself as he changed; he knew better than to dwell on his own thoughts, much less his _dreams_. Arthur dreamt nearly every night — good or bad — it was a given. There was no sense in analyzing his dreams, or lack thereof. 

He was well aware lingering on his thoughts would fail to do him any good in the long run. Arthur needed to get on with his day and keep himself busy. He just couldn’t help but feel so, deeply unsettled. 

The darkness that hovered over him the past week made him wish for the dreams that left him breathless, even the dreams that haunted him. 

The empty, suffocating feeling that lingered in his sleep — that made him doubt whether he was truly awake or sleeping — unnerved him. Arthur knew his eyes were closed, and that he remained still, but the whole night he felt like he was staring into a pit. 

Once dressed for what was left of the day, Arthur took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He brushed a finger over Jack's picture once more, and left his tent. 

Arthur felt better. 

_Truly_. 

Arthur felt fine. 

He couldn't afford to feel anything else. 

  


* * *

Arthur made his way around camp, taking note of things that needed to be done. He wanted — no, _needed_ — to focus on something outside his own head. 

It had been one hell of a week, and that week had been excruciatingly long. The more Arthur sat around Clemens Point, watching other camp members head in and head out, the more his skin itched. 

He was antsy to leave, anticipating to rise early the next morning and head out on the first job he could score. Or, at least, the first job Hosea would _allow_ Arthur to score — as the week's long worth of bed rest was at his request. 

Arthur first checked with Miss Grimshaw — who fussed over him a bit before admitting she was fine on supplies — then, made his way over to Mr. Pearson. 

He approached Pearson's table and was greeted warmly, "Oh! Mister Morgan!" 

"Pearson," Arthur said, with a nod. 

Pearson was fine on stock, but anyone with a lick of sense knew the man could _always_ use spare spices. Unfortunately, two words into asking him if he needed anything launched the man into another one of his Navy stories. 

It was one Arthur surprisingly hadn’t heard before. Mr. Pearson waved his hands around as he reenacted a time when a fellow soldier slipped off a deck and cracked his head open — likely jarred from Pearson's memory in light of Arthur’s recent concussion — and the man knocked over a bottle of olive oil in the process. 

“Ah, uh — Mister Pearson — I’m mainly just takin’ stock at the moment,” Arthur said apologetically, chuckling at the man as he cursed at the now half-empty bottle of oil. “I’ll be headin’ out sometime soon . . . lemme know if we need anything?” 

"Oh, of course," Pearson said, wiping the oil coating his hands onto his apron with a defeated sigh. "We could do with a few things!" 

Pearson reached into the wagon behind his table and fumbled around while Arthur waited patiently. 

"Ah hah! Here you are, Mister Morgan." Pearson handed Arthur a scrap of paper marked up with spices and assorted plants, "No rush, but the sooner the better." 

"Alright, thank you." Arthur tipped his hat to Pearson, who returned the gesture with a wink. 

"Thank _you_ , Arthur!" His round face, blotchy with delight. "Glad to see you back on your feet!" 

"Glad to be back on 'em," Arthur called out to him, slipping the list into his back pocket. 

He headed over to Herr Strauss' medical tent, only to find the weasley old man missing and Reverend Swanson — the second closest excuse for a doctor the camp had access to — in his place. 

"Arthur." The Reverend raised a hand to him, beckoning him closer, "How are you?" 

"Well. Thank you," Arthur said simply. "I'm checkin' stocks — you or Strauss need anything?" 

Reverend Swanson let a small frown slip in response to Arthur's quick deflection, but did not press any further. "Yes, as always." 

The Reverend turned and searched through loose papers and shady disbursements Strauss left out. Swanson pulled out a book with a weak spine and rested it atop the table, then found a blank page and fiddled with a fountain pen, hands steady. 

"Here," the Reverend slipped the paper he scrawled all over into the book he found, and handed it over to Arthur. "This should have everything you'll need in it." 

Arthur glanced at the book — a faded gray covering with a thinly scratched out drawing of Oleander Sage on the front. It read: 

**COMPLETE COLLECTION:** _Illustrated Book of Medicinal Plants and Herbal Remedies_ by Addison E. F. Fuchs. 

"Thank you, Reverend." 

"Of course," Swanson nodded, a smile turning up his thin lips. "When are you headed out?" 

"Sometime early, tomorrow," Arthur said. "That's the goal." 

"Good to hear," Reverend Swanson said quietly. "Do reach out if you need anything." 

Arthur stared at him for a moment, taken aback. "Uh, thank you, Reverend." 

"Any time, my son." Swanson gave him a light pat on the side of Arthur's arm before reclaiming his seat. "I'll be here." 

_I liked you better when you weren't sober_ , Arthur thought as he stalked away awkwardly. 

With the sun preparing to dip below the tip of the treelines, Arthur decided it was time to do what he had been putting off all week. 

_Apologize_. 

Arthur walked around the back of Pearson's wagon in search of drinks, while the man chopped away at an Eastern Wild Turkey carcass. It was meek and spindly looking — likely going to be the star of their supper. 

Arthur grabbed a few bottles of beer from the wagon, balancing them between his forearms and his chest, and approached the hitching posts — bottles clinking together and chiming noisily as he walked. 

He made his way over to Kieran, who remained unaware of Arthur's arrival despite the noise. He was cleansing the horses hooves — namely Sean's horse, Ennis, who had a nick for getting herself into messy situations, as did her rider. Javier's horse, Boaz, Karen's horse, Old Belle, and Silver Dollar, were already cleaned up. He only had _two dozen more_ to tend to. 

Arthur pushed down the urge to poke fun at him for destroying his knees at such a young age for other folks horses, and settled for a calm _hello_. 

"Hey, Kieran." 

Kieran jerked around to locate the voice pulling him from his focus, mouth parting in surprise once he realized it was Arthur. He furrowed his brow, unsure if he was about to be scolded, jeered, or cheered at from the intensity of Arthur's gruff voice. 

"Uh, h-hey! Arthur!" Kieran scrambled to his feet, throwing his hands up in a gesture that looked somewhere between frantic half-handshake and a frenzied surrender.

"Don't worry, I ain't gonna hit ya," Arthur chortled. "My hands are full." 

Kieran nodded, but said nothing.

_Stop teasing him_ , Arthur reminded himself. 

Hosea and Reverend Swanson, after doing a check up on their newly-obtained hostage some odd months back, made it clear to Dutch and the rest of the camp that Kieran was rather sensitive and jumpy; the Reverend insisted Kieran would never hurt a fly, and Hosea swore that the boy might even cry if he _did_. 

"Seriously, Kieran." Arthur shifted the bottles in his arm to hold out two to Kieran. "Take 'em." 

"Oh, I - thank you . . . Arthur." Kieran bit his lip, hands not fully closing around the glass and taking it from Arthur. "I don't wanna seem - uh - ungrateful or nothin', but I am workin' right now." 

"C'mon, it's a peace offerin'." Arthur sat down and popped open the cap of his first bottle, nodding to Kieran. "I ain't gonna tell nobody." 

"Well, I just don't wanna look like I'm slackin' around here." Kieran sat down on the log across from Arthur and propped up the bottles between his shins. "I've been tryin' to pull my own weight." 

"Nobody's gonna think that," Arthur said, then scoffed. "And kid, you pull more weight than me." 

"No, I most certainly do _not-"_

Arthur raised his eyebrows, which prompted Kieran to rush out, "-and I _didn't_ mean that in a bad way!" 

Kieran fiddled with his hands and peered around Arthur's shoulder. Arthur turned, expecting to be facing someone, but found no one. 

"Just have a drink, I wanted to-" 

"You didn't put nothin' in here, did you?" Kieran blurted. 

"I - _what?_ No! And it's still closed, Kieran!" Arthur snapped. "The hell would I even put in there?" 

Kieran winced, and Arthur quickly redirected himself. 

"Kieran, you're fine," Arthur insisted. "I just wanted to apologize for bein' testy with ya a few days back." 

Kieran blinked owlishly at him. 

"My head was still hurtin' pretty bad — and I don't mean to _excuse it_ — but, you just happened to be the closest person to me when I happened to blow my top."

"Oh," Kieran said softly, and picked up a bottle. 

Kieran tried twisting and pulling at the cap, but it only creaked in response and a blush tinted his face. 

"I can get it-" Arthur offered, "-if you want." 

Kieran nodded. 

Arthur opened it with ease and handed it back. 

"Thank you." 

"Sure." Arthur gave him a nod, downing the cheap but highly concentrated alcohol with a wet cough. "But, yeah . . . I just wanted to apologize to ya, is all." 

Kieran guzzled some of the beer and shook off Arthur's apology. "It's no worries, Arthur. I just meant . . . I only meant to-" 

"Seriously, don't worry 'bout it." Arthur gave him a look, and Kieran cut himself short. 

"Okay, okay," Kieran said, continuing to drink with Arthur, the bottle slipping every so often in his slippery palms. "Thank you, Arthur. I appreciate it." 

"Don' mention it." 

"Okay," Kieran said, lowering his voice — a faint smile growing on his lips. 

By the time Arthur finished drinking with Kieran, the alcohol swirled uncomfortably in his empty stomach and Kieran was swaying lightly. 

He thanked Kieran for allowing him to share a drink with him, and parted with a rough pat on Kieran's back. 

Arthur resided to his tent for the evening — skipping the stew Mr. Pearson fixed for supper, and ignoring the glances he got from Hosea — and settled back into his cot. 

He stared at the tanned, thinning tarp above his bed for about an hour — mentally preparing himself for the next morning, then closed his eyes. 

He was fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's fine! He's chillin' . . . mostly! Kind of . . . not really — definitely having some issues with shoving this shit down. It's hard not to, regardless of whether or not you are constantly on the go with lots of responsibilities and expectations. 
> 
> Not only is repression the most common reaction to trauma, but sometimes it is the "easiest". It's extremely challenging and so, so _painful_ to face things like this head on, and I wanted to include Arthur's struggles with it here. Another thing that can happen is a large, jarring trauma bringing up past traumas — resulting in a complete and total emotional spiral. Poor guy is just falling apart, over here. So sorry for that.
> 
> ANYWAYS, I finally got this chapter out! I feel like it was a little rough and disjointed; I will likely come and revisit in the future (as well as others) for revisions, but I just wanted to get this out as soon as I could, since I originally promised to update on Sundays. I had a busy week, and a bit of brain fog settled in, but I hope you all still enjoyed. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Progression:  
>  **5\. At a Standstill**  
>  UPCOMING CHAPTER . . . "Herbs, Herons, and a Crown for the King"  
> 


	6. Herbs, Herons, and a Crown for the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur heads out on his first errand after healing up.
> 
> John accompanies him, and later on — so does Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, this one is a _big_ one. This chapter is split into four mini sections: I, II, III, IV.
> 
> Trigger warning for descriptions of **dissociation** (II), a **panic attack** (II), and **gun-related violence/gore** (III). Content warning for a "joke" of poor taste; i.e. **microaggression regarding natives** (I), a small section about **reflecting on the loss of a child** , as well as **symptoms of depression/anxiety** and **disordered eating** (I-IV). As well as stereotypical assumptions regarding queer folks & a lil' bit of toxic masculinity (IV).
> 
> I, II, and IV are written from Arthur's POV. while III is written from John's perspective.
> 
> . . . 
> 
>   
> _SIDENOTE:_ I finally figured out how the timeline in this story differs from the canon. With how this series is sorted, the Clemens Point chapter is organized like this, rather than the original order:
> 
> "Further Questions of Female Suffrage" (1), "The New South" (2), "An Honest Mistake" (6), "Blessed Are the Peacemakers" (15), "The Course of True Love" (3), "The Course of True Love II" (4), "Magicians for Sport" (13), "The Course of True Love III" (5), "Friends in Very Low Places" (14) . . . [ where this portion of the series takes place ] . . . followed by an _ALTERED_ version of: "Preaching Forgiveness as He Went" (7) and "American Distillation" (8). I am not too sure of the place this story will cut off before, but in this series — the rest of Clemens Point generally plays out like: "Sodom? Back to Gomorrah" (9), "Advertising! The New American Art" (10), "The Fine Joys of Tobacco" (12), "A Short Walk in a Pretty Town" (16), "Blood Feuds, Ancient and Modern" (17), then "The Battle of Shady Belle" (18). Right now, I'm thinking the story may wrap up some time before (or after) "The Fine Joys of Tobacco," but it isn't a definite since this series strays from the linear canonization, anyways. Not like any of these details necessarily matter to the folks reading this, but it's mostly just to help place the timeline into perspective — in my brain, and in yours if you wish lol.
> 
> Anyways, have fun reading and enjoy the banter between the boys!

The sun lit up Arthur's eyelids and tinted them pink. 

He groaned; the morning had come quicker than he bargained for. 

He threw his legs over the side of his cot and forced himself to stand. Arthur went to bed fairly early, but he only felt he got an hour's worth of sleep. The only thing that brought him comfort was a dream — it was short-lived, blurry, and already slipping into the back of his mind, but it reassured him that he _did_ sleep. 

Arthur bent over, and bent backwards, stretching out his muscles. He felt a little less stiff than the day before. 

Tent flap now tugged down — Arthur dug through his chest, searching for the most lightweight, long clothes he could manage. This morning felt hotter than the sizzling heat of the afternoon, yesterday. 

Arthur caught a glance of his ranching pants and shoved them down to the bottom of his chest without hesitation _They was ugly anyways_. 

He slipped on cool brown slacks, then pulled his long sleeve, informal French dress shirt — the one with the white cuffs at the wrist — over his head; sticking to clothes that were loose enough to move around and _quick_ , if need be. 

Arthur left his tent and made his way over to the round table, where Dutch, Hosea, Mr. Pearson, and Miss Grimshaw sat — with Charles standing from his seat, leaning back in an attempt to make a break for it, as Mr. Pearson desperately tried to reel him back in. 

"You'll never believe this, Mister Smith!" Pearson insisted, preparing to start another spiel. "When I was in the Navy, I met-" 

"Arthur!" Dutch cut off Mr. Pearson the moment he was spotted. "Head still attached to your shoulders, I see?" 

"Mmhm, screwed on straight, for the most part." Arthur nodded to the group and stood next to Charles, shooting the man a sympathetic glance. "Was thinkin' of heading out today." 

"Feeling better, are you?" Miss Grimshaw asked, not looking up from her newspaper. 

"Much, thank you." 

"Good," Dutch mumbled into his mug. "Glad to have you back with us." 

Miss Grimshaw allowed herself a quick smile in response, then looked back down to the paper she had in hand. 

"Stick with easy running," Hosea said, taking a sip of his coffee. 

"Ah, my spices!" Pearson remembered. "You still have that list?" 

"Right here." Arthur pulled it from his pocket to wave at Mr. Pearson. 

"Why don't you take someone with ya?" Hosea said, more of an order than a suggestion. 

Arthur preferred to head out on his own, but judging by the expression on Hosea's face, that was not an option. 

Mr. Pearson smiled, and gave Charles a nudge. "Could take Mister Smith, here. He is our best man for hunting and gathering, afterall!" 

Hosea rolled his eyes in response to Pearson's comment, and Charles scoffed at the man — more annoyed than amused. 

"Charles is one of our best _men_ , period," Arthur grumbled, then added politely: "Mister Pearson." 

"Oh, I didn't mean nothin' by-" Mr. Pearson started. 

"Right, right," Dutch interrupted, holding a hand up to Pearson. "You two going, then?" 

Charles looked pointedly to Arthur: silently agreeing to go if Arthur would have him, and a flutter tingled in Arthur's gut. 

"Uh, yeah-" Arthur started, then bit his tongue. _Don't_ , rang clear as a bell in his head. "-I, uh, think I should probably take . . . Marston, he's always lazin' about. I'll make sure he gets out and earns his keep, for once." 

Charles frowned — not at Arthur declining his company, but at Arthur talking down on John. 

Everybody, including Arthur, knew John had finally got back on his feet. After running away at every chance he could get, even risking being eaten alive, John had finally settled down; Marston wasn't going anywhere. 

Arthur just couldn't bear to tell Charles 'no'. Charles would respect it, but the fear of Charles asking Arthur why kept him quiet and pushed him into throwing John under the wagon. 

_You could go with Charles_ , Arthur thought. _Stop worryin' about every God damned thing._

"Okay, Arthur," Charles said, his voice quiet; he turned away from the table and set off to find something else to do. 

Hosea gave him an odd look, and Dutch raised his eyebrows. No one said anything — no one asked him anything — but the silence seemed to turn his stomach in that moment more than any words could. 

"Best be off, then." Arthur shuffled away, feeling sweat form along his brow. 

Arthur headed to his tent to grab the book Reverend Swanson loaned him, his satchel, and a canteen of water, then made his way over to Abigail and Jack. 

"Mornin', Abigail." Arthur greeted, then lowered his voice upon realizing Jack was still fast asleep on their padding — Abigail stroking his hair. "John around?" 

"Talkin' to Sean, I think." Abigail whispered, and smiled up at Arthur. "Feelin' okay?" 

Arthur nodded to Abigail, gave her a small smile, and headed to the campfire on the opposite side of camp — listening for Sean's chipper, ringing voice. He found John, sitting next to Javier and Sean, who was rambling about something. 

"John!" Arthur called. "You doin' anything?" 

"Uhh, no?" John looked up, adjusting himself on the rock he was perched on. "Not really." 

"Then, get off your ass and start doin' something." Arthur lumbered over to where the three men sat, and patted John roughly on the back. "C'mon, les' go." 

"Mornin' to ya," Sean greeted Arthur, who grumbled his 'hellos' in return. 

Javier tipped his hat as Arthur dragged John off. 

"See you boys 'round," John said, cranking his head around to catch a glance of Javier and Sean. 

Arthur gripped John's shirtsleeve tighter and tugged him along. 

"You sure you're ready to be headin' out, Arthur?" John asked. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

_The hell you so mad for?_ Arthur thought, frustrated more so with himself, than with John; he was perfectly content only a few moments before. 

"Uh . . . no reason, really." John shrugged Arthur's slackening grip off. "You feelin' better?" 

"Just peachy." Arthur reached around Baby Bubba and unhitched him. 

"Head hurtin'?" John pulled himself up into Old Boy's saddle. 

"What you askin' me that for?" Arthur patted Bubba and started out on the trail to the main road. 

"Well, you _hit it_ , didn't ya?" John asked, falling in behind Arthur. "You're snappy." 

"No, I fuckin' ain't," Arthur snapped. 

"Like hell you are!" John laughed at him. "What'd I do to make you start at my throat again? Thought we worked things through?" 

_We did_. Arthur took in a breath and let one out.

"Maybe I changed my mind 'bout how I feel," Arthur retorted. _Calm down a moment, would you?_ He was thankful John wasn't getting riled up by him being a horse's ass. Tame and cool-headed, or not, getting hollered at out of nowhere would set anyone in their right mind off. 

"Yeah, sure, Arthur." John mumbled, taking each of Arthur's backhanded comments with a grain of salt. "Where we headed?" 

"Up north a bit, then west. We've gotta stock up on some stuff." 

"Like what?" John asked. 

"Stuff we need to stock up on," Arthur said bluntly. 

"Cut it out, Arthur," John groused. "If you keep this up, I can easily turn back around." 

_Good job, Morgan_. 

"John, wait-" Arthur had Baby Bubba slow down, allowing John to ride up beside him. He pushed down the irrational anger that bubbled out of him — the burst of rage that sizzled off his skin like droplets on a hot pan — and forced himself to lighten his tone. "I . . . I'm sorry." 

"Should be," John said, the look on his face closely resembling a pout. "I ain't do nothin' to ya." 

"I know, I know." Arthur held up his hands in a surrender. "I haven't been gettin' too much sleep, is all." 

"How come?" John asked, eyeing him slowly. 

"No reason," Arthur said quickly. "Jus' get unlucky sometimes, I guess." 

"You guess?" John asked, his cocky grin returning. "Sometimes I think you get up on the wrong side of bed, then go back just to sleep on the wrong side again." 

"You might be onto somethin'," Arthur chuckled, then added a snarky: _"for once."_

"Hey!" John made an attempt to shove at Arthur from his saddle, but nearly lost his balance. 

Chuckling, Arthur threw out a hand to steady him. "Easy there, cowboy." 

"Shut up," John said with a snort. John readjusted himself and pulled on Old Boy's reins, taking the lead on the path. "So, what we lookin' for, _exactly?"_

"I've got a list of things from Pearson and Swanson on me," Arthur said, patting his pocket. "Need some stuff for salves and spices." 

"Spices?" John echoed, "God knows Pearson needs 'em." 

"Uh huh, aren't we lucky we've got one of the best cooks to bless the south?" 

"Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather have Abigail cook! At least we'd catch fire and never have to eat again," John remarked. 

"What?" Arthur laughed, caught off guard. "She can't be that bad!" 

"Oh, she _can_ , I promise you that," John insisted. "Though, maybe catchin' fire would be preferable to poisoning." 

"Poisoning? What you on about?" Arthur asked, tugging on Baby Bubba's reins and picking up speed. 

"Oh, c'mon, Arthur. You don't ever wonder what happened to all Pearson's fellow seamen?" John hollered to him. "I would bet money they dropped dead from his cookin', alone!" 

"He didn't poison nobody!" Arthur cracked up, "At least . . . maybe not on purpose." 

Both of them cackled, throwing around jokes and jabs back and forth, as they rode through the countryside. 

The guilt Arthur initially felt about turning down Charles to come with him drifted to the back of his mind as him and John were galloping, side by side. He had missed spending time with John — as stupid as John was — Arthur had missed him. 

Things had been tense since he ran off, but over the past year or so, the tension began to ebb away like the strength of spider silk in a storm. Getting out of camp and getting out of his head was already proving to make a huge difference in how Arthur felt. 

As the warm summer wind tickled his face and blew back his beard, Arthur felt more clear headed than he had the past week. 

The bounce of Baby Bubba's stride no longer left his head threatening to bobble from his shoulders, and the sun no longer left him feeling light headed or wanting to lie back down. 

_See?_ Arthur thought to himself, _you're fine, Morgan_. 

Arthur listened to John whistling as he rode, relishing in the song in his ears rather than the ringing in his head. 

  


* * *

Arthur and John slowed to a stop just a few miles northwest of Rhodes, at the border of a forest and hilly plains. Arthur tossed Addison E. F. Fuchs' book on medicinal plants and herbs to John, who fumbled with it before it fell to the ground. 

"Nice catch," Arthur remarked. 

"Maybe next time you shouldn't've thrown it at my damn head." John picked up the book with a huff. "What's it for?" 

"It's a pretty ol' picture book — it'll help ya figure out what we need," Arthur told him as he removed the lists from his satchel. "Shouldn't be too hard for you to find things." 

"Don't be so sure." John flipped through some of the pages, "None of these have colors on 'em." 

"For Christ's sake," Arthur said in disbelief. "It's a book, John, not an art gallery. You _read_ what colors them plants are! They're in the descriptions." 

"Agh, alright." John rolled his shoulders and sighed, as if he was preparing himself for a challenge. "You wanna take to the trees or the plains?" 

"Plains," Arthur said quickly, "but don't, uh, stray too far — don't want you gettin' lost or anything." 

"I ain't gonna get lost," John scoffed. "I'll be in hollerin' distance _just_ for your piece o' mind." 

"Great." Arthur rolled his eyes at him, feeling his face burn. "Thank _you_." 

Arthur and John split the lists between Pearson and Swanson evenly, then began to search the area, high and low for what they needed. 

Arthur sifted through the fields; he gathered berries, flowers, herbs, mushrooms, and other kinds of plants. 

Spicy, savoury, and sweet. 

Ginger, cinnamon, garlic, and cloves. 

Oleander Sage, allspice, oregano, and American ginseng. 

Blackberry, raspberry, burdock root, and rosemary. 

Weeding them out, pulling them loose, and plucking the buds — Arthur's fingertips were rubbed raw from tugging, tearing, and thumbing each individual plants. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as the sun roasted everything in its view, and his hands grew cramped after digging around in the brush for close to two hours' worth of his day. 

Sometimes, spice and salve runs could be more tiring than a day's worth of trigger finger after keeping a steady hand in a fight; runs were so much more tedious than pulling the trigger of a shotgun. 

But Arthur preferred going on a run rather than going into town; the gang was slowly intertwining with two opposing families living on the outskirts of Rhodes — The Braithwaites and The Grays — and if Arthur wanted to deal with the families for future heist preparations, that meant he would have to go into town. 

Arthur was more than content to deal with fingers rubbed-raw, itchy and aching, as opposed to dealing with unfamiliar faces in an unfamiliar town. He had already met Sheriff Leigh Gray — Arthur had been appointed by Leigh as an acting sheriff, but the idea of heading out on a mission at that man's request left him uneasy. 

"Hey!" John's raspy voice called out from deep in the treeline, "Arthur, c'mere!" 

Arthur pocketed a stash of light and feathery common bulrush, and followed the direction John's voice sounded from. 

_"Arrrthur!"_

"I'm comin'," Arthur hollered, then grunted to himself, " _dumbass_." 

"Jus' making sure you could hear me!" 

Arthur shook his head, picking up his pace to meet up with John. A few steps into the shade of the forest, Arthur could make out John's form hunched over between the tree trunks. "What is it?" 

"I can't find any damn St. John's Wort," he grumbled. 

"John's wart?" Arthur asked, already grinning before he could finish, "Just tug down your trousers and you'll-" 

"Shut up, Arthur." John held up a mangled dandelion, frowning. "I can't tell if this is it." 

"That's a _weed_ , John." 

John groaned and continued picking through the brush, keeping an eye out for the bright, golden hue of yellow among the greens. 

"What about this?" 

Arthur turned. "Nuh uh, that's goldenrod — don't even look like St. John's wort." 

The longer Arthur stayed under the shade of the trees, the quicker his heart beat; he started to feel like he was trapped in. 

He started looking with John — if he helped, they would be done much sooner, _hopefully_. He walked past John and observed the bases of forest trees, hoping to spot the plant weaving its way around one. 

"Found it!" John blurted. He was beaming, a glint in his eye as if he beat Arthur in a challenge, and holding up — _another_ handful of goldenrod. 

"Same plant you found last time," Arthur snorted. 

"How'm I supposed to know? I ain't no goddamned botanizer or nothin', Arthur!" 

"Christ, John. A _botanist_ ," Arthur ran a hand over his face. "You ain't a _botanist_ . . . but, good lord, you have the damn book!" 

"Whatever." John crumpled from his crouch and splayed himself out on the forest bed. "Shoulda brought Charles instead of me, anyways." 

"Wha's that supposed to mean?" Arthur narrowed his eyes. 

"I dunno, Arthur," John snapped. "Maybe he's just better at plants than I am!" 

"What? You can't be better at-" Arthur stopped himself, and took in a deep breath. _He's mad about something_. 

Arthur couldn't pinpoint where the anger was coming from. 

John mentioned Charles, but it was likely just because the man was well-versed in the properties and abilities of plants. John was on an errand that combined nature _and_ into one; it probably had him feeling out of his element. 

John struggled with reading, but he struggled more so with nature. His jealousy blossomed the moment Charles brought Arthur a handful of flowers, picked out with ease. Charles brought him flowers while he was on bed rest after his run-in with Colm. The gesture was much appreciated, but it set John off; he always had been jealous of anyone's knowledge surrounding plants. 

When John was younger, everyone who was running with the gang at the time would remember the time he gathered a bouquet of flowers for Abigail. Unfortunately for John, his endearing floral arrangement was mixed in with a hefty batch of poison ivy. 

And that rash spread _everywhere_. 

_Even to John_ — not a single person in camp let him live that down, especially not Abigail. 

"You usually spend plenty time with Charles, but now you just bring along to — what? Yell at me?" John crossed his arms, still sprawled out on the ground. 

Arthur didn't think John being "bad at plants" or Arthur spending more time with Charles than him over the past few months was the reason behind John's frustration. Just like his brother, John bottled things up until they came bursting out — top flying with a whistle, foam frothing and spewing all over the place. 

"What's wrong with you?" Arthur asked bluntly. 

"Nothin'," John grumbled, getting up to his feet clumsily. 

"Sure," Arthur said, raising his eyebrows. 

"No, I just mean . . . what are we- what we doin' out here?" John asked, throwing his hands up. "I ain't much for complainin', but-" 

"You _aren't?"_

"I- no, I _ain't_ , Arthur! I feel like we keep strayin' farther and farther away from everything we were meant to be doing." 

_Oh_. 

"If it weren't for you, Dutch woulda had me goin' into town to deal with some inbred hicks who still think it's normal to own people." John picked up the book, his face flushing. "I don't even know why we're doin' what we're doin' no more." 

"John, we-" 

"An' I know I ain't no good for him, but I just want what's good for Jack, and I-" 

John quieted, looking down at his boots. 

Arthur had pushed John away for months after he left, worried he would just up and leave _again_ , and in doing so — Arthur hadn't even considered what had been going through his brother's mind throughout all of it. Arthur was just too busy feeling abandoned by him — by his _family_. 

"Hey." Arthur took a step toward the younger man, and gripped his shoulder. "We're just gonna get enough money to head on outta here, John." 

John looked at him, his brown eyes sad and doubtful. 

"I know I've been down an' out for the count the last week, but I heard there's gold in the mix, John," Arthur reassured him. "We're gonna get outta here and have a good life — a life away from all this crap." 

"Think so?" He asked. 

"Know so," Arthur reassured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "We'll get outta here soon. You'll do Jack right, I know it." 

John shrugged off Arthur's hand, a watery chuckle escaping him. "You- you're right, I just . . . I really don't like it 'round here. The folks or nothin' else." 

"Yeah," Arthur said, feeling a lump form in his throat. "I don't like them much, neither." 

John gathered himself together and rubbed at his neck, returning back to his search for St. John's wort. 

Arthur resumed his search, as well — all while yearning to get out of the forest and into the open; he wanted to be under the sun no matter how hot it was, and away from the suffocating canopy of the forest. 

"Hey," John said, clearing his throat, "on the brightside, I think I found it." 

Arthur watched John grab the book and head deep into the forest; he stopped in front of a wide-trunked maple and leaned down, wrapping his hand around thin, green stamens — gold, frayed petals opening up and out. John lifted the handful of St. John's wort out for Arthur to see, a growing smile on his face — upturning the scars along his cheeks. 

"Sure did," Arthur confirmed hoarsely. 

Arthur scratched at his throat, noticing it felt tight; he began wondering if he walked through something he was allergic to. Arthur watched John unravel the vines around St. John's wort; he clenched and unclenched his tingling hands. All Arthur could think of was how badly he wanted to get into the open — out of the forest. 

_Oh, hell_. 

Arthur wanted to head back out to the trail. The forest often comforted him; its silken, lush blanket that wrapped him up and kept him cool in the summers. But the forest felt more suffocating than not — like it was closing in on him and taking his breath. 

"M'gonna head out to the horses," Arthur told John, growing short of breath. "You 'bout done?" 

"Yeah, I'll catch up in a few," John said. "Just gotta gather up everythin' in my rucksack." 

Arthur turned before John even finished his sentence. 

Arthur walked a few paces, and noticed the tingling sensation in his hands had spread to his legs. 

With John, now, out of sight, Arthur doubted his decision to head back to the horses; he was getting himself turned around. 

_Am I goin' the right way?_

Arthur stumbled over his own feet and braced himself against a tree. 

"Shit," Arthur muttered, trying to catch his breath, " _shit_." 

He looked around him, trying to figure out why he felt like he was bordering on passing out. 

His head wasn't hurting — _nothing_ was _really_ hurting him. 

But his _chest-_

His chest felt so tight. It was as if there was a copperhead wrapping around his ribs, squeezing his lungs up against each other. 

_Christ_ , Arthur thought, unbuttoning the top few slots of his shirt. _Calm down_. 

His chest ached; like an anvil weighed against it. 

_Get it together_. 

The trees surrounding him looked _wrong_. 

Arthur stared at them, wide-eyed as he watched the wood grow warm in its hue, and spiral in its pattern — the maple leaves and dried pines melt into droopy, black willows with their winding roots. 

Arthur doubted for a moment if he stood where he was really standing. _You ain't there, Morgan_ , he thought foggily. _You ain't there no more_. He could have sworn he felt the muddy sludge sinking in his boots — just for a second. 

He blinked a few times, and the trees were as they were before he hurried away from John: cool milky brown, straight-edge grains, and their bright, round heads of leaves. His boots were dry. 

Arthur found himself staring ahead at a heron between the trees. 

She was light, with full wings tucked under her side — black, pink streaked beak and narrow head bobbing as she walked through the forest. 

He took in slow breaths, fingertips scraping at the tree bark in front of him as he watched her webbed feet step over sticks — waddling along through the forest. Another heron, of shorter stature and fluffed feathers followed behind the other; likely following its mother. 

"Arthur!" 

Arthur jumped around, feeling his stomach lurch. John was speeding towards him. 

"Thought you said you was gonna wait by the horses! The hell are you doin'?" John asked, out of breath. 

_Had he been running?_ Arthur wondered. _How long have I been standing here?_

John fiddled with the cuff of his summer overcoat. "You alright, Arthur?" 

_Don't just stand there like a dimwit! What is wrong with you?_

"Yeah, uh, I just got distracted," Arthur turned to glance back at the heron. "Found a heron . . . two, actually." 

John looked past Arthur at the heron, then back at Arthur. 

"Big, too," Arthur rushed out, "for her species." 

"Uh, yeah," John agreed, the look on his face softening. "A pretty bird, ain't she?" 

"Yeah, the youngin' is, too." Arthur nodded, and took a step — thankful he didn't lose his balance. "Ready to head out, then?" 

"Okay," John agreed, with a quick shake of the head. "Let's head back." 

As they walked back, Arthur could sense John's nervous glances at him every few paces. 

Arthur wanted to reassure John he was fine, mainly to avoid any backlash when they returned to camp, but he wasn't sure he could confidently say anything more than a few words without his voice wavering; he settled for quiet, which steadily increased John's nerves. 

John did what he was second best at when the man got nervy: talk. 

The _first_ best thing John was good at was leaving, and Arthur, whether he would admit it or not, was mighty thankful John didn't leave him that time. 

"You know, Abigail and I was thinkin' that I should take Jack out sometime." John popped his knuckles, eager to change the subject. "Fishing, maybe." 

"Mmhm," Arthur said. 

The sun greeted them at the edge of the forest, as did both of their horses. 

"After lunch, I was gonna try an' take him out." John looked at him sideways, as he hitched his rucksack to a loop and adjusted his saddle bag. "Would you feel up to comin' with us?" 

"You know damn well I ain't no fisherman." Arthur reached for Baby Bubba's and hoisted himself up, still feeling zaps of energy course through him, electrifying his extremities. 

"I ain't one either," John admitted. "If I wanted my boy to be a good fisherman, I'd send him out with Hosea." 

"Fair enough." Arthur let out a laugh, a little more shaky than he hoped it would sound. 

"So, you think you'd wanna come?" John asked, digging his boot in Old Boy's stirrups. 

Arthur held his hands out in front of him, expecting them to be shaking with the lightning shocking his whole body — but they were still. _I kinda wanna lie down for a bit_ , Arthur thought. 

John had his hands on Old Boy's reins, but stayed put — watching Arthur stare at his hands. "Uh, you sure you're alright?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur said. "Think I might've stuck my hands in somethin' not too good for the skin . . . bit itchy." 

"Well, 'least we got stuff to make salvages now," John said. 

"Salves." Arthur shook his head at John. 

"Whatever," John snorted. "Ready?" 

"Yeah, m'good," Arthur said. 

Stocked up, the two men headed back to Clemens Point on horseback. 

"So, whatcha think?" John asked, "You didn't answer, before." 

Arthur thought for a moment, running his hands along the leather reins — steadying himself. "I'd like to come with you an' Jack, I just might need a quick rest first." 

"Run you dry?" 

_Apparently_. Arthur was worn. 

"Nah, just need to recharge a bit," Arthur said. "It's hotter than hell out." 

"Lose a layer," John said, shaking his head at Arthur. "Might not end up so damn worn out if y'aren't spendin' all your energy on sweating." 

"Maybe," Arthur said, with a weak laugh, "maybe." 

  


* * *

"I can turn everythin' in for the both of us," John said after him and Arthur settled back into camp. "You want me to bring some lunch over to ya?" 

"Nah, I won't be out for too long." Arthur waved a hand at him. "I'll get somethin' to eat when I get up." 

"Okay, Arthur," John said. 

John gathered everything they collected from Arthur's saddle and his own, then made his way over to Pearson's table while to Arthur headed to his tent. 

Uncle, Bill, Javier, and Micah sat at the round table in front of Pearson's fiddling with knives and throwing insults as they prepped for a game of Five Finger Fillet. From a glance, John saw Bill was flustered, and trying prove something — either to Micah and the others, or himself — while Uncle and Javier waited, anticipating a brawl. 

_Place your bets on Micah_ , John thought, shaking his head at the men. Micah was as slimy as can be, but he could win a fight without even trying. Bill, on the other hand, even as an army man — wouldn't last more than five minute in a duel with fists. A duel with words, Bill likely wouldn't last one. 

"Hey, John!" Javier waved him over. "Join us?" 

As tempting as it sounded, John shook his head. "I got things to take care of, maybe later — if y'all ain't cut each others' fingers off first!" 

"Guess we'll have to wait an' see," Javier said, chuckling. 

Bill kept his eyes glued on Micah, and Micah stared back with quirked eyebrows — mocking the man's intensity. Uncle snorted at the two men, downing half a bottle in one sip. 

_Fools_. 

John banged a fist on Pearson's table, signalling for him to come around from behind his wagon. 

"Mister Pearson!" 

The man, who looked years older than he was supposed to, lumbered towards John. "Mister Marston! What do you have for me?" 

"A lot," John said, spilling a mixture of supplies out on the slab before him. "I dunno how you want it sorted." 

"I'll take care of it, don't you worry!" Pearson said, flashing a jolly smile. "Thank you, Mister Marston. Do thank Arthur, too!" 

John mumbled an agreement to Pearson and shuffled over to Strauss' tent. THe Reverend leaned against a supporting pole, hovering over the scrawny Austrian man's shoulder — watching his boney fingers flip through piles of loose papers. 

"Uh," John stuttered. "Herr Strauss?" 

"Hmm?" Strauss murmured, not bothering to look up. 

Reverend Swanson nudged Strauss, annoyance leaking from the jabbing elbow, and gave John an unsteady smiled. "You and Mister Morgan find everything okay?" 

_Kind of?_

"Sure did," John said, handing the Reverend their stash of supplies and the book he loaned Arthur earlier on. "Here." 

"Thank you," Reverend Swanson said with a curt nod. "Did the book help?" 

"Definitely," John said. "Though, if it weren't for Arthur, I dunno how much I would have been able to find." 

"Well, I'm grateful you both got on alright," The Reverend said, but his smile wavered, and his eyes darted to glance behind John. "And where . . . is Mister Morgan?" 

"Oh, he's alright-" John reassured him. "Just needed a quick rest 'fore we go fishing this evening." 

The soft smile returned and Reverend Swanson nodded to John. "Do take young Jack." 

"That was the plan, Reverend," John said warmly. 

Reverend Swanson and John parted ways, with Strauss giving John no more than a grunt at his arrival or departure. John scratched at his behind; sweat from his back trickled down and made his waistband rub uncomfortably against his skin. 

_God damn, it's hot_ , John thought. He made his way over to him and Abigail's tent. _Could use some rain_. 

He figured if Arthur planned to rest before they went out again, John might as well take advantage of it; granted, John didn't fall from his horse like a clumsy, first time rider — or _whatever the hell Arthur did_ , but that didn't mean John couldn't allow himself a break. 

"John!" The warbling voice ran through John's head like a .33 caliber bullet, molten at the edges. 

_Dammit_. 

Dutch hurried over to John, eyes wide and sparkling. "My dear boy! John, how are you?" 

John shrugged, "M'fine, Dutch. Why?" 

"How were things with Arthur? You boys get on okay?" Dutch spun his rings around his finger, studying John's face. 

"Nothin' to worry about," John said. "We got on fine." 

"Of course, John." Dutch pursed his lips. "Why would I ever have anything to worry about?" 

_Wrong answer_ , John thought — beginning to wonder if there ever truly was a _right answer_ when it came to Dutch. 

"You ain't gotta worry, Dutch," John backtracked. "That's what I meant — _don't_ worry." 

"You sure, son?" Dutch pried, distrust showing through the wrinkles of his forehead. "Arthur causing you any trouble?" 

John shook his head. 

_Stop searchin' for something to be wrong when nothin' is_. 

"No, he ain't causin' trouble, Dutch. He's just pissy every now an' then, that ain't new." John crossed his arms. 

"He was mad about something, was he?" Dutch stepped closer, lowering his voice. 

John sighed. "He wasn't mad, Dutch. A little out of sorts, is all." 

"Out of sorts," Dutch repeated, looking away from John. 

"Yeah, ran off for a bit. Seemed a bit confused, but he was fine," John said, flustered. "The run went smooth, we got everythin' needed, Dutch . . . an' we're going fishin' later, too. He's just restin' now." 

Dutch nodded slowly, a distant look in his eyes. John could barely stand to have a short conversation with Dutch when he got in one of his moods — bouncing from one suspicion to the next whether there was something suspicious or not; John especially hated it when Dutch would grill him for answers he never had. 

"Good." Dutch's voice grew softer, but his tone had a twinge that made John wince, "Arthur needs his rest." 

Dutch stalked away, pondering all of the reasons Arthur could have "ran off," as John stared after him, regretting every word that tumbled from his mouth. He eagerly awaited the moment Arthur was ready to head out. They had just got back, but Dutch's edge drove John's urges to leave up the wall within minutes. 

John ran his nails along his scalp — the sweat running between strands of hair — and scratched away at it as it made him itch. 

_You just set him up_ , John internally chided himself. There were a million ways John could have tried to end the conversation sooner, but he continued to run his mouth and sabotage Arthur's chances of getting off easy. 

Arthur being on mandatory bed rest did not stop Dutch from growing more antsy by the day; his best boy was off his feet. Nobody had the liberty of resting anymore — not with the law and their black boots kicking at their heels, running them away at every corner — not even the injured. 

"John," Abigail greeted. 

"Abigail." 

She patted a hand against the tarp she sat on, motioning John to sit down. He sunk down onto the tarp, relishing in the shade from the sun, and leaned into Abigail. 

"Too close, sweetheart," Abigail laughed, shoving John away. "It's too damn hot for you to be hangin' on me like that." 

John shrugged her off and rolled his eyes, heat rising in his cheeks. Abigail leaned in and wiped the sweat trickling down the side of John's face, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "How're things?" 

"Alright, I guess," John mumbled. "Got into it with Dutch, a bit." 

"Bad?" She asked, blowing back a loose hair sticking to her face. 

"Nah." John shook his head. "It'll be fine, he's just in a mood." 

"We're in for a rough week, then," Abigail said, with a humorless chuckle. 

"Count on it." John gave her a look. 

She sighed, leaning back to look up at the clouds passing overhead. "You an' Arthur still gonna go fishin' with Jack?" 

"Count on that, too." John smiled. "We'll head out later." 

"Good boy," Abigail said. 

John leaned back against the tarp and watched the clouds with her. He could hear Jack babbling to Mary-Beth nearby, and the chickens clucking around the coops — but the sounds slowly faded as he felt Abigail run her fingers over his wrist. He turned up his hand to hold hers. 

John wished the conversation him and Arthur shared earlier eased his worries, but it barely touched the surface of them. 

No matter how many times someone told him, John was sure things were going to come crashing down around the gang. 

_Maybe they already have_ , a thought wisped through his head. _And nobody's gonna see it when it hits_. 

The gang had been teetering on the edge for months; they had been teetering — in sync with Dutch's unpredictability. There were good moments and bad moments, solid scores and scores that fell through. 

But even when things were going good for them, John expected their plans to spiral out of line and it would be completely out of his control. 

Things had changed since Blackwater. 

_Dutch_ had changed. 

The thing that scared John most was that no one else could see it. 

Arthur reassured him that everything would be fine, and so did Hosea — even though, John could tell the man was growing wary. 

But they weren't there. 

_They weren't in Blackwater_. 

They didn't see Heidi McCourt. 

They didn't see the fear in her eyes the moment before Dutch shot a bullet straight through her, leaving her left eye dangling by gummy nerves — her right one cloud over as she choked out her last breath. 

How were they supposed to know? How were they supposed to know the invisible threats Dutch held over all of their heads? 

It was hard for John to care too much about the menial things — like teaching Jack to read, to ride, to _fish_ — when he wasn't sure they would even see the light of day the next morning. 

John held Abigail's hand a little tighter; the grasp was slick from summertime sweats. 

All he wanted was to get the hell out of trouble — away from a town full of armed hillbillies and raging racists, away from the whole of civilization, and away from any threat that could tear his family away from him before he could even draw his gun. 

He just wanted everyone to get the hell away and stay safe. 

John just wanted _out_. 

  


* * *

After resting a few hours in the early afternoon, Arthur managed to rein in more energy to last him until the evening. He was still tired and didn't feel like getting out of bed, but Arthur knew leisure was never an option; Dutch made that clear. 

Arthur wasn't too sure what he did, but Dutch had it in for him the moment he left his tent. 

They were fine earlier, but _something_ had set the man off. Hosea wasn't there to back him up, so he just took it and left with John to go fishing the very second he could get away. 

Young Jack clung to John's hand as they walked along the shore of the lake, half a mile away from camp. 

_Fishin' ain't gonna be too hard_ , Arthur reassured himself — all while knowing he was a terrible fisherman. _You ain't that far from camp, you can just take it easy_. 

He was more than a little on edge after the easy run with John; Arthur had never felt like that before. It was like his feet were planted, but he wasn't even sure where he was really standing. 

_Get out of your damn head_. 

Jack was busy babbling about knights around a table and how they were sent out in search of some royal lady; some book Mary-Beth was reading to both him and Abigail, earlier in the week. It was a silly story — Jack seemed to enjoy it, though. 

_Rather have him raised a chivalrous knight than a reckless gunslinger like the rest of us_. 

"Let's stop here," John said. 

Jack stopped right behind John, bumping into his leg. "What do we do, Pa?" 

"Beats me," John muttered under his breath. He pulled out the bait and strung out Jack's fishing pole, "You gotta put bait on your hook so the fish'll think you're here to feed 'em." 

"A trick?" Jack asked, his eyes wide. 

"Yep," Arthur said. _Barely works, though_. 

John stood and watched Jack attempt to bait the line, but reached in to guide his hand. "Be careful not to poke your thumb, Jack." 

Arthur and John led Jack through the motions, and within a half hour, he had cast his first line. 

"Good job, kid," Arthur congratulated him. "Now, you just gotta wait for that tug we talked about." 

"Okay, Uncle Arthur," Jack chirped. 

Arthur baited his own line and reared back, sending it several feet out. 

"Thanks for comin' with, Arthur," John said, winding back in his fishing pole after a weak cast. 

"Welcome," Arthur said, "but I came more so for Jack, here." 

Jack looked over at Arthur — his round, rosy face broke out into a smile. "You came for me?" 

"'Course, kid. You're a lot more tolerable to be around than your Pa," Arthur joked, giving John a light shove. "I'll take time spent with you over your Pa, any day." 

Jack giggled at him. 

"Wha- no, Jack!" John protested, taking in the turning tides. "Uncle Arthur's bein' mean, you ain't supposed to agree with him." 

"Uncle Arthur's funny," Jack said simply, turning a shoulder to his father — and John's jaw dropped. 

"You've gone an' turned my own boy against me," John said, with a dramatic sniffle. 

Jack laughed harder, clutching his stomach and losing hold of the line. 

John shook his head at Arthur, steadying Jack's line. "Jackie, you gotta keep hold of it or you won't catch yourself any fish." 

"I don't wanna!" Jack protested, looking expectantly to Arthur in hopes he would let him off easy. "I'm tired." 

_Hard worker, just like your father_. 

"We just got out here." John threw up his hands. "You expect us to return with nothin', do ya?" 

Jack stuck out his lip, and whined, "I don't wanna catch any fishes, Pa." 

"He's already got the basics down, John," Arthur said, chuckling at the boy's outburst. "Might as well let 'im do what he wants." 

Jack looked at John once more, his soft blue eyes pleading him, and John crumbled. "Fine, fine. Show me how you reel the line in, an' you can do what you want." 

He reeled in his line, bait soggy and dripping, then handed the pole to John. 

"Go on," Arthur encouraged, and Jack beamed at him, turning around in a flash to dig through the bushes a few steps behind them. Once Jack seemed preoccupied with the scattered flora along the lakeshore, John turned to Arthur. 

"Abigail seemed to think Jack would do good to take up somethin' easy," he grumbled to Arthur. "Should've done with somethin' harder . . . maybe he wouldn't get bored so quick." 

"He'll catch on," Arthur said. "You know how long it took you to start bein' willing to learn new things? _Three_ times his age." 

"I guess you're right," John said, shifting on his feet. He lowered his voice a bit, "Though, I worry he's a little . . . soft." 

"How d'you mean?" 

"You know," John tilted his head back at Jack, who was on his knees and weeding through flowers — gathering them in separate piles. "He's more of a . . . bookish-type boy. He ain't got drive to fight, only wants to pick flowers and sing." 

"Wha's wrong with singin', John? Or pickin' flowers?" Arthur asked. "Weren't you just complaining 'bout how you _couldn't do plants_ , earlier?" 

John shook his head. "Nah, look at him-" 

Arthur peered at Jack over his shoulder; he was twirling the flowers together, looping them into crowns and trying them on. 

"Seems to like watchin' Abigail knit more than — I dunno — _other_ things," John said, chewing at the side of his cheek. 

Arthur snorted. "What you mean? You think he's a queer?" 

"No, I didn't say that, I-" John winced and cast a glance to Jack — to make sure he didn't overhear Arthur, but he was invested in tying flowers' stems into knots. John held up a hand, anyways, to hush Arthur, "-do . . . you think so?" 

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Arthur laughed. A jerk of his rod pulled him to attention, "Ooh, I think I've caught somethin'." 

"Thank God, m'still dry as a boneyard," John said. "And I mean . . . ain't you kinda like that way?" 

"Like what way?" Arthur asked, as he reeled in a smallmouth bass with success. 

Arthur knew exactly what John was asking him, but he was enjoying watching the man stumble over his words too much to let him off easy. 

"Well, like . . . ain't you like-" John paused, taking in a sharp breath, "-you know . . . the way Dutch and Hosea can be?" 

"Yeah," Arthur said without a second beat, snickering at the heat that spread into John's cheeks. "That don't mean I can put a pin on every other queer, or _hell_ , queer in the makin'." 

"No, I know," John said, glaring out at the lake. "I jus' meant . . . I feel like he ain't wanna do much stuff with me, and I'm his father, ya know?" 

"He'll come 'round, John — he's a boy. Just because he ain't interested in fishin' or ridin' a horse don't mean nothin'," Arthur said, trying to suppress his laughter. "An' even if he turns out to be that way, it don't mean he ain't gonna want to spend time with you." 

"So, what you're sayin' is — I'm a dumb bastard?" John asked, smirking. 

"There," Arthur said, giving John a pat on the back, "you've got it down pat, don't ya?" 

"Guess I do," John said. 

"An' if all else fails," Arthur began with a smirk, "we can always teach young Jack to swim." 

John blew out a puff of air, ignoring Arthur's comment. 

"Speakin' of all that, though . . . with Jack, I mean," John started. "Why haven't you- oh, I've got somethin'!" 

John yanked a thin, wriggling redfin pickerel from the lake, waited for it to cease thrashing, then tossed it by Arthur's catch. 

"Go on, John." Arthur's stare bored into John as he waited for him to finish. 

"Why haven't you been out with Charles?" John asked, living up to his reputation for notoriously choppy segways. 

_Actually ain't too sure about that one_. Arthur added more bait to his line and handed some spare to John, taking the time to think over John's question. 

"I dunno," Arthur admitted. "I don't gotta spend every damn second with him." 

"I know that, Arthur. You just usually . . . seem to _like_ to." John shrugged. "Spend a lotta time with him, I mean." 

Arthur pondered on what John was trying to say to him, he looked sincere — his face wasn't drawn tight in the way it did when he wanted to rush through a conversation or smalltalk, he was genuinely asking him why. 

John's geniosity caught him off guard — it scared him — because Arthur didn't know. He didn't have an answer. 

"Would you rather me go back to ignoring you and givin' ya shit for abandoning everyone like the vile lowlife you are?" Arthur spat. 

John groaned. "I'd rather you not. You're pissy enough as it is." 

"Pa," Jack called from behind them, "look what I made!" 

"What is it, my boy?" John passed his line to Arthur and made his way over to Jack. 

"Look!" Jack held up a loose circle of mixed crimson and gold yarrow flora, spun together by the silky stems of creeping thyme — its clovers poking out in between the yarrow blooms. 

"Well, would ya look at that," John gestured, but his facial expression showed he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at. 

"I made crowns, Pa!" Jack grinned toothily. "One for Uncle Arthur, too." 

"Those are mighty nice, Jack," Arthur said. 

"You know the story Miss Mary-Beth was reading? They all wore crowns," Jack reminded them. 

As Jack continued on about the book — talking about how the knights and royal leaders had horses of their own, too. Arthur learned the story even had a king in it named after him. 

"Oh, Jackie-" John said, "-we're far from royalty, my boy." 

"That doesn't mean you can't wear a crown, Pa," Jack frowned at him, motioning his father to slip the flowers over his head. "Kings get their crowns because they are strong . . . and brave!" 

Arthur snickered, adjusting the reel on John's pole and setting down his own as he tugged in a wiggling trout. "Oh, we're strong and brave, huh?" 

"Yes," Jack said indignantly. 

"Well, why haven't you made yourself one, then?" Arthur asked. 

"Yeah," John agreed, blowing a loose petal from the crown off his forehead. "You're strong, ain't ya?" 

"I am!" Jack crossed his arms and stomped over to Arthur, shoving the crown in his free hand. "I'm not big enough to be a king, Pa. Uncle Hosea says I am a _little prince_." 

"Oh, Uncle Hosea's in on this, too?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. 

"'Course he is," Arthur said, placing the crown of flowers on his head. "Isn't he ever the romanticist?" 

"Fair enough," John agreed, turning back to Jack. "Should make one for your Ma, too." 

"I am Pa," Jack said, returning back to the pile of flowers he plucked. "Ma can be the girl king." 

John scrunched up his nose, trying to shove down his laughter. "I think you mean _queen_ , Jackie." 

"Oh," Jack said absentmindedly, already focused on the task at hand. 

John turned to Arthur, "Did you know I married myself a queen?" 

"As a matter o' face, I _did_ , King John," Arthur said, forcing out a poor posh accent. "And you should treat her as such." 

"I _do_." John stuck out his chest, mocking the posture of a heavy-statured, fit knight, and turned to Jack. "I soon must bring you back to your mother." 

Jack howled at his father, rolling back against the dusty shoreline. "Pa, what are you doing?" 

"I am a big, brave knight . . . or _king_ -" John lowered his voice to a rumble, lumbered over to Jack — resembling that of a drunken fool or clumsy jester, rather than a respected king or brave knight. "-And I shall return with a feast!" 

"Of _pickerel_ ," Arthur added. _Not much of a feast_ , Arthur thought, chuckling at John and his boy. 

Jack continued cackling at John, who grew more distracted by the minute. Arthur settled for taking over catching a few more pickerel and slim basses, allowing John to take a break; Arthur was too busy enjoying the sounds of John and Jack mess around behind him. 

The setting sun lit up the pale silk of his fishing pole, casting shining streaks on the water's ripples, and Arthur let his mind wonder. With his ears tuned into Jack's laughter, Arthur couldn't help but drift away to think of Isaac. 

His eyes burned, and he ground his jaw together. 

Isaac would have been twelve — nearly thirteen years old. 

_Could have-_

Isaac could have been a big brother to Jack. 

_If you didn't leave them for dead_. 

Jack was the closest thing to raising a son Arthur had. He loved that boy more than the world; that was part of the reason Arthur reacted so harshly to John when he left. 

How could John up and leave his family? How could he do that — knowing what happened to Eliza, to _Isaac?_ Arthur came and went for a weeks at a time, bringing money and supplies to Eliza, the mother of his child, taking care of them in the ways he knew how — and the one time they needed Arthur, he was _gone_. 

Isaac _could have_ been on his way to being a young man. 

_Would he really think you're all that strong and brave, Morgan?_ Arthur thought, bitterly. _Would he? With Isaac knowing what he knew?_ How Arthur left him and his mama for dead? 

_You ain't strong, Morgan. No wonder you couldn't be a damned father_. Arthur wiped sweat from his brow, both John's and Jack's voices fading in the background. _You ain't even a man_. 

"Arthur?" John spoke from behind, Jack trying to climb up his back. "You 'bout ready?" 

"Yep." He forced out. 

Arthur turned, fumbling with the fishing pole as he folded it up, and John helped gather their catches — tossing them in a thin sack over his shoulder. 

John gave Arthur a nod, and looked down to Jack — whose hands were grasping at air, up at Arthur, just above his knees. 

"Les' go, kid." Arthur lifted Jack up, propping the boy's legs around his shoulders. 

Arthur was thankful they weren't far from camp; he was tired. 

The sun was close to settling behind the horizon by the time they arrived back at Clemens Point. 

Pearson thanked them for their contribution and tipped his top hat down to Jack, "And you, young man!" 

Jack jumped at the praise, and shouted a gleeful _"welcome"_ before running off to find his Ma. 

Arthur resided to his tent and gathered his things for bed. 

"You not gonna have supper?" Hosea made his way over like clockwork to pester him. 

"Nah, I've been snackin'," Arthur said. 

He felt guilty for lying, but the thought of food was turning his stomach. He was just tired. 

Once changed into nightclothes, Arthur propped his feet up and pulled out his journal. 

He stared at the blank page, and he thought back to the pair of herons he saw earlier that day — their shining beaks, dark pigmented heads, and magnificent, cotton-white wingspans. The disgruntled honks they made as they maneuvered their way through the maze of forest floor. 

Arthur spun his pencil in hand, and slowly realized — with a frown — he didn't feel like drawing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I'm off schedule — I am, unfortunately, a very busy whore. I would much rather prefer to be writing from dawn until dusk, but prior commitments tend to eat away the majority of my time. I had midterms this week (and lots of work leading up to it), so I've been _beat_. Though, I'm enjoying working on the next chapters though! Keep an eye out for Chapter Seven! She'll be comin' around before ya know it.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> The story Jack was referencing was _The Boy's King Arthur: Sir Thomas Malory's History of King Arthur and the Roundtable Knights_ (circa. 1880), written by Sidney Lanier. The book was written to please young men, and direct it more towards a younger audience — encouraging more children to enjoy rich stories such as Arthurian Romances in a format more suited for them to comprehend.
> 
> Progression:  
>  **6\. Herbs, Herons, and a Crown for the King**  
>  7\. Wavering Flame  
> 


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